Allecto
by PlaidButterfly
Summary: Although Palpatine's initial plans have fallen through, he finds a new and willing apprentice in a young Togruta... and the galaxy finds itself facing a new threat. ROTS AU, Padme/Anakin.
1. Prologue

When she had spoken these words, fearsome, she sought the earth:

and summoned Allecto, the grief-bringer, from the house

of the Fatal Furies, from the infernal shadows: in whose

mind are sad wars, angers and deceits, and guilty crimes.

A monster, hated by her own father Pluto, hateful

to her Tartarean sisters: she assumes so many forms,

her features are so savage, she sports so many black vipers.

_((Author's Notes: Honestly not trying to pull the pretentious douchebag thing here, I just really love the Aeneid._

_Also trying out something slightly new here, a more fast-paced style. It means more filling in the blanks and for_

_that I apologize. It means I get this plotbunny out of my head faster though. :) ))_


	2. Spark

Things were not going according to plan, and Palpatine was not pleased.

Oh, the war was going wonderfully, the constructed stalemate grinding on as usual. But the boy, Skywalker, had stopped coming to him for advice, troubled with different sort of dreams that had somehow spooked him so badly he was turning to Kenobi again. His toy was slipping away and exhibiting a distressing degree of autonomy. It was infuriating.

But he had not been expecting her to show up at his door. He knew her face only vaguely, pouting as Skywalker left her behind to come speak with him. He called her _Miss Tano_ and heaped on the compliments, called her _brave_ and _a master strategist_ and _a hero_ in the short initial conversation. "I am afraid I have little clue as to how to entertain such a sophisticated young woman, but if you enjoy the opera, we can speak there. I am sure you need some time to relax, after all."

He had her at _sophisticated_, he saw, as she puffed her chest out a little and smiled. He knew she was at the age where she wanted to be an adult, so very badly, even if it nearly killed her, after assuming so many adult responsibilities. "That sounds perfect," she chirped, even though throughout the evening she could not hide how bored she was by the airy, ethereal Mon Calamari opera. After frowning in confusion through half of the first act, she finally seemed to break and turned to him. Her back was straight, posture too perfect, trying to be adult, but her eyes were full of worry that was distinctly childish.

It took a few false starts of her being overformal, apologizing for being overformal, stumbling over herself, trying again after being soothed, but she finally got to the point. "Anakin – uh, Master Skywalker – he mentioned that you give good advice. - I would ask Master Kenobi, or Master Koon, but I don't think they would understand. ...Can you keep a secret?"

And he put on his best benevolent smile and nudged the tray of refreshments closer to her. "My dear, I am trusted with the Republic's secrets. Of course, I can and I will. Have a cup of hot chocolate. Your secret is safe with me."

She paused and struggled, obviously thinking that perhaps it was too childish before her own craving took over, and she snatched up a mug and cupped it in her hands before looking down into it as if there were a teleprompter hidden at the bottom. "There's... it's complicated, but... I know I'm not supposed to know. But my Master's gone and done something against the Jedi Code. He... I listened in once when he told me not to, and – he and Senator Amidala, they're..." Her voice held no anger at her master being a rulebreaker, only an odd sort of yearning, almost envy. "In love. She's going to have his child, soon."

He did not stop to read her expression before giving a small noise of approval. "Love is a grand, precious thing," he said, forcing his voice to be wistful. Love was a poison, a falsehood, he knew this, but now was not the time. "I'm very happy for them."

"I am too!" Her head shot up and she seemed almost overenthusiastic to agree. "I am. I really am. But it's against the Code – that's why it's a secret. It's just that -" She paused, mouth open, lip trembling a little. "I've been having nightmares, ever since I figured it out. I think – I think there are going to be twins, I mean, there are two of them, always, when I'm dreaming, and – and everyone's screaming, and they're so _young_, and I just see them die again and again..."

If she had known she would have been able to pick up on the predatory gleam in his eye, but she was young and ignorant to only see his sympathetic frown. "We are in the middle of a war," he said solemnly.

"I know," she agreed desperately. "I know. But it's just – I don't know. I think it must be a premonition, I guess, for the future. I can't figure out how to... how to make it not happen." What large, desperate, childish eyes, wide with false hope that he would help. "I want them to grow up, so I can visit them and see them grow up. Maybe they'll even call me Aunt Ahsoka or something. That's not selfish, is it? - I don't think it's selfish. I want to help them." But there was that desperate desire for a family underneath it all.

He reached out to pat her arm and smiled kindly. "Of course it's not selfish, Miss Tano. If anything quite the opposite. I am sure Anakin would be very proud to hear you right now, very proud and very grateful." She puffed up her chest a little as the flattery hit home.

"There are, of course, ways to use the Force that I am sure your Master has not mentioned... have you heard the tragedy of Plagueis the Wise?"


	3. Charred

Obi-Wan had been the one to find her, while on Coruscant, Palpatine's body was nearly still cooling. The galaxy was tossed into chaos but Mustafar was far enough away to be insulated from everyone trying to pounce on the Republic and claim power.

He had tried, he told himself. He had tried.

But she was all fury and howling anger. He had tried to talk and she had ambushed him, nearly driving him back with each furious stroke. There was no choice other than to defend himself, so he did. The conversation over the din of the lightsabers was useless, and he tried not to chastise himself too strongly for becoming attached to her, for the numbing sadness that overwhelmed him as she fell back into the hissing red river of lava and answered his outstretched hand, his offer for help, by flinging her lightsaber at him wildly. He thought that if Anakin had been brother to him, or perhaps son – younger brother, perhaps – whatever you could call the relationship between Master and Padawan, then Ahsoka had been something to him as well. Like a grandfather laughing at his son suddenly realizing that 'strict' upbringing had merits, he supposed.

And now she was gone, the last fingers of her hand having slipped away underneath the blazing lava. Its warmth was scalding his face even as he leaned down to look for any hint that she could be dredged up, even if only for a proper burial, but there was none.

He had tried, he told himself. He had tried.

* * *

She understood, now.

It was such a beautiful clarity that she knew it could not have been accomplished through anything _but_ such excruciating pain. She had gone in eyes closed, but now they were open; they were opened _for_ her, the lava scalding, burning away, red glow striking her corneas. It burned away her montrals, it seared off the white lines on her face she had known herself by. Only the little beaded head-dress remained.

But understood, but did not succumb. The hate was there now – the reality of what Anakin was, of what Obi-wan was, of what they _all_ were. She had a purpose as she dragged herself up, and her hand bled raw as it curled around the sand as if envisioning it were her master's throat, open, red, fleshy, ready to rip out the soft and tender vocal cords. It made it easier, now, because he had not left her. The waiting medical droids were proof of it, but his voice hissed in her ear before they could reach her.

_Rise, Darth Allecto._

She stood for only a moment on her skinny, charred legs, wobbling, before falling forward into the clean steel arms of the droids.


	4. Ash

"Sah?" The rookie hadn't quite lost the thickness of the accent every Clone Trooper seemed to have, but his expression of puzzled worry was mirrored by all of them as Anakin Skywalker abruptly turned away from the briefing to run five steps away to the ship's small bathroom and throw up into the sink.

For a moment all of them stared before Rex frowned. "Sir?" Anakin's shoulders shook in another heave and he shook his head, shakily holding up a hand as if telling the clones to wait, please, before finally fumbling with the lock to close the bathroom door. All of them stared, shifting nervously out of the strict at-attention pose to sway from foot to foot or let their guns rest at their sides. The rookie was the one to clear his throat and finally speak.

"Sir, there's still Order 66."

Rex flinched and glared, bristling. It had been a topic that invaded the comlink chatter over the past few hours, and now the briefing room as well. "Never say those words again, rookie."

"But it's on the books. We all know it. And you know that it was supposed to go into effect after his death -"

"Shut up, rookie."

"He's weak and alone, sir, we don't get another opportuni-"

"I said _shut up_, rookie!"

They had been speaking in whispers, but Rex's voice abruptly became a shout so loud it seemed to have a presence of its own, the words standing uncomfortably beside them. Other than the silence, they could hear Anakin gagging again in the bathroom.

"Is that clear?"

The rookie mumbled something.

"I said, _is that clear_, rookie."

"Yessah," he drawled out, distinctly surly.

The seething anger made Rex's whisper terrifying. "If you make a move, all of us will shoot you first, understood? If you'd _remember_, we were told to _first_ be loyal to the Republic. The Republic says we are to continue serving under the Jedi-Generals. Order 66 will not come from the Republic. The Republic has said Palpatine was a traitor. _Is that clear, rookie?_"

This time his voice shook. "Yessah."

"Good."

In the stillness, Anakin's next heaving gag became a sob.

The pain was crushing. It was strangling. The nausea, even as he gagged so hard he could hardly catch a breath, wasn't the worst of it. He could not cry out, not for his own sake, but because he couldn't find the strength to. Just pain – white hot, searing, burning. Behind it was the staggering anger that hurt nearly as much, fire through his veins, pulsing at his throat with every strong and frantic heartbeat. There would have been a chant running through his head, but the anger was so intense as to defy any outcry, almost even going beyond the word _anger_. All he could do for a few long moments was gag and mouth a string of curses to himself.

But then he finally found the thread of connection, through the Force, so full of anger and hatred that it was toxic. He tugged, tested it, and then finally recognized why it was so strong. It took only a few moments of worried awe for him to make his decision.

Ahsoka's last memory of Anakin, as she reached out to find some way to keep living, would have been him violently pushing her away out of self-preservation.

Fifteen minutes later, still pale and shaky, Anakin finally stepped out. Immediately the clones hurried to get up from where they had reverted to lounging, pulling themselves up to stand as straight as they possibly could. Rex noticed he did not meet their eyes, and his voice was rasping from the bile he was still having to choke down. "Get General Kenobi on the comlink. _Now_."


	5. Tinder

The Trade Federation had found its chance and exploited it, and now the planet was in ruins. Off in the distance the bombs stomped in the distance. Behind them was the rubble that used to be the medical station; they had gotten out half an hour early, but it was still a close enough call that Anakin was still on edge. He could not explain how the Federation armies had honed in on him so quickly, or why. All he knew is that Padmé still seemed pale and easily exhausted, even after spending two days resting with a ruddy-faced infant in each arm. As she stopped to catch her breath in a small outcropping, one of the children stirred and gave a little mewling noise of discontent, but quickly quieted. He reached out to gently squeeze her shoulder, but his other hand was holding his lightsaber. The thrumming and light were comforting, somehow, enough for Padmé to give a soft little laugh. "I don't think she appreciates the noise."

"Neither do I," he admitted, a little more grim, before giving her another worried smile. "Obi-Wan's ship is only about fifty more meters, in that direction. It shouldn't be long." They locked eyes, sharing the same thought: _Thank the Force that Kenobi had not asked too many questions._ There were no time for questions. There was not even time to rest properly. Each slamming, earthshattering rumble was coming closer, shaking their teeth. The babies squirmed. "Here." It took a remarkable amount of trust, but gingerly, he scooped up Luke, shuffling his lightsaber around to hold it with his gloved, false hand – already a strong, firm love for his son was burning in his chest. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be." She gave him a smile. If there had been more time, he would have put his lightsaber away to caress her cheek, to praise her for the sweet bravery he had fallen in love with and continued to adore. But the next bomb made plaster shake loose from the rubble they were standing underneath, and both of the infants gave squawking cries. He held Luke against his chest a little more tightly, trying to peer out to see where there was danger on the long stretch of flat no-man's-land until the next makeshift shelter. The children fussed. Padmé gulped so solidly he could hear it. "Now!"

And like two birds spooked by a hunter's dog, they ran.

The next bomb blast, she stumbled, nearly losing her balance but hunching her shoulders and clutching her daughter closely to her as if that alone could protect the child. Both of the infants now were crying in earnest, the bombers coming closer and closer. A scream above them mirrored the sound, but harsher and crueller – a fighter was coming in, fast. They had been spotted. "Get in -" It was not ideal but the half-collapsed house seemed stable enough. It was a tight fit but Padme, panting, slumped down to sit, folding herself into the tight niche and reaching out to take Luke from Anakin before the Jedi fell into a crouch, holding his lightsaber out to protect them.

Outside, the fighter landed, shifting configuration to walk on spindly, insect-like legs. That was no regular Vulture droid, he knew, even if it was Xi Charrian. It was shining black, smooth and graceful, able to walk more easily as well as fly; it was swinging its head – no, he had to correct himself, not a head, a sensory device – around as if looking for someone. The infants cried hysterically as he withdrew his lightsaber and tried to duck into the niche beside his wife, as small and silent as he could be.

Its red eyes peered around, each needlelike leg coming down to dig into the dirt as the droid seemed to pause and sniff to catch a scent. It was hunting, and that was very clear. Anakin had to pause to remind himself to breathe, to focus; the terror and anger surrounding the droid was palpable, a small vortex of the dark side. It was mesmerizing and intoxicating in a way that blinded him. It was enough to make the constricting fear start to tie his throat shut again.

He realized after a few long moments that besides the steady drumbeat of the bombing, the only thing he heard was the wind, the droid outside, and Padmé sobbing.

The fear had been enough to blind him, much less her, already weakened. Luke had calmed, somehow, to just a soft whining fuss, but Padmé's hand was over their daughter's mouth, and the infant was squirming for air. "Padmé," he whispered, then stronger - "Padmé!" But it was paralyzing fear; he could feel where it had invaded her mind, making her think that sacrifice was the only way for some of them to come out of this alive...

Anakin's hand pulled back on her wrist; the child gasped and then, with full lungs, bawled out a cry so loud Anakin was sure he would never forget it.

And then the slicing blade of the droid's leg came down hard through the collapsing roof, stabbing blindly.

Padmé screamed in earnest; his lightsaber was in his hand, and the blade screamed against the metal of the droid's exterior – Cortosis-weave, it had to be. This was not an ordinary droid, this was something more -

"Run!" For a moment Padmé didn't move, the dark side still clouding her mind until he screamed at her in desperation. "_Run!_"

And finally she scrambled up. The ship was in sight now, plain and utilitarian but with the Republic symbol painted on the side, and Obi-Wan was even jogging over as best he could. His mind was not in the fight, it was on her as she ran, desperate and afraid; it was with each of his children. Worry only compounded the dark side's effects swirling around him. The Cortosis-weave and his lightsaber screamed against one another as, spiderlike, the droid tried again and again to impale him. It was only through luck he managed to dart between its legs before having to turn around to block another blow, the droid too fast to turn his back on.

"Anakin!" Obi-Wan's voice, but no time to answer it. Padmé, exhausted, was already half-collapsing into his arms. The children were still crying, but he could barely hear over the din of blue meeting black, and he could barely counter each obsidian spike -

A swinging, small movement caught his eye. Half a second's glance was enough to recognize the Akul-tooth headdress, now swinging from the droid's neck, if you could call it that. It was so stunningly familiar...

"Ahso--?"

The rest of the word was lost in a scream as one of the needlelike legs of the droid plunged smoothly through his chest.

For a moment he struggled. Padme screamed out, he remembered, as he struggled to try and shove himself off of the droid that had impaled him, but it was already dangling him midair. He only had enough strength to try and cut through the Cortosis-weave once more before his lightsaber tumbled from his hand and he clawed desperately to try and get away even as it held him out in front of it like some prize. As soon as his eyes rolled back in his head, the droid scooped up his lightsaber as neatly as a spider gathering up the last crumbs from its web. The broad middle compartment of the droid opened, and it tossed Anakin within roughly, even as he weakly struggled to keep the doors from closing in to entomb him. There were a few sparks as it finally closed on his mechanical hand, crushing it, only the fingers remaining above the brim like the last farewell of a drowning man.

Obi-Wan ran as best he could, lightsaber out, but his worry was still divided. By the time he arrived it was too late. The droid had shifted back into its fighter configuration and he was greeted with nothing more than a blast of air that nearly knocked him over as it took off.

And one of the mechanical fingers from Anakin's crushed hand tumbled off, rolling in the wind to join the debris of the ruined city.


	6. Controlled Burn

He was on his fourth backup plan, but that didn't matter. Palpatine was a shrewd man. He realized that you did not need simply a plan, and a backup plan, but a plan B, C, D, onto Z again, then up around the alphabet to A-prime and on. Not just two steps ahead, but twenty steps ahead, while still keeping his mind in the present. Not an impossible task, just a slightly tricky one. After all, he _was_ Darth Sidious – nothing was impossible.

One could supposedly have called it luck, but it was easy enough to feign a dying scream and give up one body for the next. Unfortunately for the senator, but not for him, a representative from some distant planet obsessed with cloning perfect lines had been polishing up a report late into the night, the same way his genetically-identical 'father' and 'grandfather' had done. Palpatine admitted that he had a fondness for clones. There was a simplicity to their thoughts that made it so easy to carve them away an shove them aside, like a butcher's knife hacking the fat away from a slab of meat.

It had been a good enough body to see about what needed to be done – to see the child scooped up from Mustafar and put into a bacta tank, to guide her into reaching out to the Dark Side to impress her will, thoughts, emotions onto the droids she now commanded. An impressively easy job, he thought, all told. All he really needed to do was show her the means, and to casually mention the black suit waiting there that just happened to fit her old master.

_Almost_ enough to make him sentimental, really, if a young sith's first howling, rabid rage was as much of an event as a sweet sixteen birthday party.

But the body that happened to be there so conveniently was old and tired, frustratingly so. And the Kaminoans already had his orders – it was a matter of years, after all, a few short ones, but years nonetheless. And he would not spend that time in a frail body when the solution was so easily found.

There was the matter of going out in style, of course.

He had made sure to run up the official expense account for his – or, rather, his current body's former owner's – senatorial position. Choice purchases would plunge the planet into political turmoil, questioning the idea of cloned bloodlines, and – he hoped – a few of the courtesans would be indicted as possible accomplices. After all, when inflicting torment, why not add a few more flourishes in?

It had been similarly easy enough to procure the package he carried with him. He already was sure of the outcome, but it wouldn't be in vain. His senatorial status was enough to get him through the first few doors, but when the familiar young woman swept through the doorway, elaborately dressed, he was the first to greet her.

"Good evening, Sabé."

Her eyes widened as he spoke her true name, and not that of the woman she was supposed to be impersonating. As his fingertips went for the hidden trigger, her mouth opened as if to scream. But he didn't stick around to enjoy dissolving in a blaze of fire.

Palpatine was already gone.

Settling into a new body, of course, took a few minutes. He flexed his fingers and took a deep breath before opening his eyes. Truthfully, he wasn't quite aware of how comfortable the Clone Trooper armor was, but he was glad of it.

Another one of the clones peered at him. "You all right, there, fifty-seven?"

It took him a moment to get settled into the body enough to pull his facial muscles into a smile. "Of course. Perfectly." The youthfulness of his joints was a relief, and the blaster rifle had a pleasant weight in his hands. Not a substantial improvement, honestly, but at least this was his chance to do what he needed.

He waited until relative calm had returned before leveling the rifle, calmly shooting the two others in the back. The pilot actually managed to give a startled cry before going down. Shoving the corpses out of the way was a bit of an annoyance – but it was confirmation that everything was going as planned.


	7. Incandescence

"I was expecting you to come," Padmé said quietly, not explicitly motioning for him to come in. The tone, although perfectly polite, made Obi-Wan wince: it was guarded and cold, too pleasant.

"I came to see if you were all right. The news of the attack -"

"I'm fine, thank you." Obi-Wan winced again. A politician to the last, one couldn't fault her for politeness, even as she turned away from him to continue talking. "Sabé will recover in a few days. The injuries are merely superficial."

"So I heard." He expected this line to be prompting for her to continue, but she merely had gone over to the crib to fuss over the sleeping twins. It did not help that he was distracted, eyebrows knitting, and blurted as politely as possible: "Is that – I mean, are you wearing...?"

"Anakin's tunic?" Indeed it was, billowing on her smaller form, but the plain rough cloth of Jedi garments unmistakable. It was dressed up, certainly, elaborately decorated sashes bringing the cloth in to flatter her figure, incorporated near-seamlessly into the tapestry of her outfit. She did not look back at him, but instead moved to a table, rearranging the objects there. "Yes it is. I realize you may think me foolishly sentimental -" the paperweight she moved made a sharp bang on the desk - "given how Jedi abhor attachment, but I believe I'm justified." Carefully making sure her braided hair was in place, she sat down at the wide desk, suddenly gaining an impressive aura as her expression became frozen in a thin frown.

Obi-Wan had taken a step back without realizing it. He knew that the cold tone and carelessly tossing a paperweight around was, for the senator, the equivalent of Anakin peevishly glaring, or a half-bawled screaming match from – his thoughts paused – well, from Ahsoka.

She flexed her hands a little, looking down at a datapad on the desk. "I'm sorry, I can't offer much in the way of refreshments. I am afraid I've had to curtail spending, given the hefty fine that it seems I will be paying, since someone on the Jedi Council decided to prosecute me under an obscure law for _seducing a member of the Jedi Order_."

This time, Obi-Wan winced outright. The bitterly dry, accusing tone was as good as a slap across the face from the Senator – it certainly reflected the same level of anger.

"Padmé, _please_ -"

"Oh, of course. It's Council business. I am so _sorry_, Master Jedi, it must have just slipped my mind. After all, I have no right to inquire about it, even if I wonder why the legality of our relationship is a hot topic instead of whether my husband is even still alive."

"_Senator!_"

She jumped a little in her seat, but her eyes actually met his. He noted the dark circles underneath them. She examined the dark circles underneath his eyes as well.

"I am _not_ the one you should be angry at. I am here, in fact, because I was forcibly excused from the discussion for holding an unpopular opinion."

"And what would that be?"

"That the entire debate is a moot point, because the two of you will do as you damn well please."

It took a few beats, but her thin frown thawed into an equally thin smile. Obi-Wan let a small sigh of relief out through his nose. "Why are you here, then?" This time her voice was softer and kinder, and she motioned to one of the handmaidens. He took the cup of tsane the handmaiden offered, using the time to think.

"I am here to ask you if there is a traditional gift on Naboo that would be appropriate to give the twins. I'm not sure I have formally given you my congratulations yet."

Her smile spread a little more, but it became forced as she spoke around it in a murmuring whisper. "You're here for something else, as well, aren't you."

"I am," he admitted, hesitating. "There have been... intelligence reports of specialized Separatist ships, of modified Xi Charran make, heading to a small outer rim planet. Apparently it is some sort of torture facility, enough evidence to secure a small force of troops to liberate it, but -"

"You believe Anakin is there," she whispered.

He nodded slowly and chose his next words carefully. "All you need to do is say the word and I will make sure that you have a suite on the ship, Senator."

She was too proud and too well trained to let him actually see the sudden tears, but her "thank you" was mostly lost in a whisper. He politely let his eyes drop as he sipped at his drink while she feigned at adjusting her hair to wipe at her eyes.

"When do we leave?"


	8. Flame Test

"He looks strong enough to pull the ears off a gundark already!"

"That's Leia, Rex, not Luke."

"Oh." The clone trooper looked off to the side in embarrassment as Padmé tapped at the screen to display the next holovid of the twins.

Fortunately, she smiled benevolently to show him that she understood what he was getting at. She hardly expected the clones to have terms such as 'adorable' in their usual vocabularies, after all, and it was a long trip out from Coruscant. That meant that nobody on board was getting out unscathed from seeing the pile of pictures she had already taken of her children. Obi-Wan had personally sat through the entire slideshow twice and honestly didn't mind seeing it a third time.

It was a change that he was glad to see. A few days of rest – proper rest, without infants or politicians or journalists to interrupt her – and the senator was as pleasantly benevolent as he had always remembered. She had even blushingly offered an apology, and seemed even more cheered when he deferentially shrugged it off as a completely understandable reaction.

But he still kept his voice low. "Attie?"

The clone trooper at the navigation gave a quick, short nod. "Yessir, General Kenobi?"

"How much longer until we arrive at Danjar?"

"Three hours until we're in orbit, sir." He lowered his voice. "Should I try an arrange for the senator to be kept on-board, sir?"

He shook his head. "No, no. That's not necessary. I doubt she would let you, anyway," he murmured with some amusement. "Just... see if there's any spare armor that could fit her."

"Yessir, General."

Danjar IV had been an agriworld for so long it was hard to think of the landscape as anything other than crop-filled plains and terraced orchards where steep hills had been. It made the stark grey Seperatist facility stand out all the more, a dull wound against the lush green. Somewhere, an orchard of hardwood fruit trees had caught on fire, just more of the usual collateral damage. The smoke reminded Padmé of traditional barbecued foods instead of the carnage of war, and she didn't know whether to consider this unfortunate or fortunate.

The battle had been going for several hours before they even arrived, and she truthfully could say she was a bit annoyed, but the troops were breaking through the lines of security droids, and the meat of the battle was finally beginning. Mostly she was thankful that Obi-Wan did not mind her following him onto the battlefield, even if the clone troopers were on pins and needles. She could take Rex rolling his eyes a little at her insistence that she could shoot as well as they could, and she could even stand the chafing of the few scraps of armor they had stuffed her into, if it meant she could walk with the rest of them.

Obi-Wan's lightsaber lashed out to deflect another blaster bolt; by the time the ricochet travelled back, the droid was already down, dispatched by her quick response. He breathed out slowly and smiled brightly at her before looking back at the clone troops following them. "Rex – what's the status of -"

"Red team has made it past the first line of defenses, sir; Green team's encountered a little trouble, but otherwise right on schedule, sir," the clone replied quickly.

One of the others (she, to her embarrassment, could never remember who was who, especially with their helmets on) raised a hand. "General Kenobi! - Sir – there's comm chatter from the clanker side, they're -" He shook his head a moment. "They're diverting forces, sir, this side should have minimal resistance. Something – _someone's_ trying to fight their way out, sir," he blurted quickly, sounding almost terrified. "Up ahead – we'll end up meeting them if we continue on."

She could see Obi-Wan frown underneath his beard. Silently, he motioned for them to move forward. As they cut through the next wave, across the open-air corridor, she head one of the clones swear underneath his breath as she shot down three out of the eight droids before they could. It was enough to make her smile for a moment before she gave a breathless gasp.

The black armor was shining, and it was engineered to inspire fear so well that she paused in momentary terror. She did not look to see Obi-Wan bristle, because he knew that the slick obsidian armor was of distinctly Sith make, and he was able to sense the dark side that seemed to be innately clinging to the very limbs of the figure. It was a joke neither of them would truly understand: the punchline came in another universe entirely, where the armor became the person wearing it, and the skull-like mask became a galaxy-wide symbol to inspire terror. In some other universe there would be Vader, but here it was a destiny too forced for its time.

"Hold -!" Obi-Wan lifted his hand, a closed fist telling the clones to stop in their tracks. The lightsaber, at least, seemed familiar, even if the style did not: the armored figure swayed clumsily as if unused to his own legs, or in too much pain to be truly coordinated.

To his chagrin, she was the one to recognize something in it before he did. Her cry was keening, shrill and sharp, but heartfelt. "**Ani!**"

The black skull mask raised. It was enough for one of the magnaguards to see its opportunity and take it – the armored figure gave a strangled cry as the droid was able to strike him on the shoulder. It was then, truly, that she noticed the steady labored wheeze. Her hands were trembling almost too fiercely to aim, even as she ran forward. The shot that distracted the magnaguard was far more luck than skill.

It was enough for Obi-Wan to motion to the troopers. The guards were pouring out of one entrance to the small grassy courtyard, and it was simple enough to cut them off. He was there to deftly fend off the well-trained magnaguard even as the figure in black fell to his knees, cloak falling in around him. The very real dangers of the battle going on around them faded in her mind as she was there to try and catch him.

"Please -" It was and it wasn't her husband's voice, raspier, thicker, and deeper, but still him as he reached out with a gloved hand to catch her wrist. "Help me -" he didn't have to specify, her fingers were already searching for the seam in the helm to pry it apart. And finally she could see his face, even with his skin ashen, his hair grown into tangled mats that stuck too close to his skin. His eyes, bloodshot, were still blue.

Her touch and Obi-Wan's pleading were not enough to keep his eyes from rolling back into his head, even as they waited for the medical dispatch to arrive. She watched the last rosy tinges fall out of the color of his lips as he struggled for each breath.


	9. Gromnicy

"Of course I can do that for you, sir, but surely you've heard it all from the medical droid?"

Obi-Wan gave a thin smile. "I'd like your interpreitation, if you please."

"My interpretation is that it doesn't make a damn bit of sense," the medic muttered, sounding flustered. He looked over to see if Padmé was asleep: thankfully, she finally was, sitting at Anakin's bedside with her head nuzzled up against his shoulder. And his padawan – he paused, correcting himself – his _former_ padawan was still unconscious.

The small lights of the buttons that had invaded his chest shone through the blanket they had tossed over him. Obi-Wan tried not to stare: the thought of machinery invading so brutally was sickening.

And the medic sighed, turning to his datapad and flipping through it. "All of the prosthetic replacements _fit_ – they were designed for a man of his height, build, so on – but the means..." He gestured widely. "They were all meant to fit on a cauterized wound, clean-cut, like a -" The medic paused.

"It's all right, you can say it," Obi-Wan said kindly, but with an exhausted smile.

"-Like a lightsaber blade cut," the medic said hurriedly, trying to quickly get past the issue. "But, ah, as I was saying – instead they've been fitted over joints that have been... well, the legs – it's a ragged cut, so a sawblade, something similar. But the right arm – the old prosthesis was apparently ripped out with the rest – it's a more traumatic injury as if it had been ripped from the socket by brute force." He paused, gulping solidly. "I'm sorry, sir, I do promise that my bedside manner is usually better. I don't mean to sound like a pre-recorded holovid."

"Quite fine." Again, a threadbare smile. "These are trying times. Please, continue."

He cleared his throat before gesturing. "The original right arm prosthetic appears to have been hastily extended to compensate, up to the shoulder. It's – well, it's cheaper, less delicate work – the tissue around it is starting to reject the alloy, unlike at the legs. But I..." Gulping, he took a moment to sigh upwards, his bangs fluttering. "You asked me for my opinion, sir. My opinion is that it makes no sense, especially the... the work in the chest, there." He danced around the actual issue neatly. "It's... it's very fine-tuned for a specific sort of injury, a mass searing tissue death of the inner lung lining – that hasn't happened here, but it's as if someone has tried very hard to recreate it. There's been blunt trauma, deep puncture wounds – some exposure to caustic chemicals -"

Obi-Wan held up a hand, politely and silently asking the medic to not continue further.

"The good news," the medic said quickly, "is that it looks as if there hasn't been any treatment with bacta at all – so he should respond well to that. Don't worry, General," he almost boasted, trying to put on a soothing smile. "We'll have him on his feet before we're back at Coruscant."

"Thank you for your time."

"My pleasure, General."

And silence spread over the room again, settling in like a foggy sunset. The little twilight noises of the medical equipment, the wheezing respirator, and Padmé's soft snoring were enough to keep him awake. It was fortunate. Two hours later, a tiny groan escaped Anakin's lips; Obi-Wan squeezed gently at his shoulder. The panic in the other man's mind was blind, smothering, and instinctive, but Obi-Wan was able to smoothly cut through it, a few simple concepts painted in the Force with broad strokes: _it is my hand on your shoulder, Anakin, and that is your wife by you, not your captors, not your tormentors. There is nothing to fear. You are safe._

For half a moment, Anakin's blue eyes drowsily opened, staring unfocused, before he closed them with a long, ragged sigh and fell into a deeper sleep.

Obi-Wan still kept vigil by his bedside.

The lights in the corridor were brightening again for the false dawn aboard the ship; a new clone trooper guard came to relieve the one that had been standing all night at the door. And Obi-Wan listened, eyes closed, half-meditating the entire time. There was still a cesspool of darkness around Anakin that made his stomach churn. He could only hope that the light he was able to bring would drown it out, a lone candle in a room of shadows.

His lips had nearly stuck lightly together as if he had been sleeping when he opened them again. "I'm awake, Rex."

"Ah." The clone trooper shifted from side to side a little before carefully taking off his helm, a gesture of solidarity – and solemness, as if the medical bay were a temple where all hats were to be removed at the doorstep – as well as showing he was off duty. "I just came to see if there was any news about the General, sir." He nodded to Anakin.

"He'll be fine by the time we get to Coruscant," Obi-Wan said, smiling pleasantly.

Rex's face hardened, eyebrows knitting. "Sir, permission to speak freely?"

"Permission granted."

Despite this, he lowered his voice. "I'm not the senator, sir. I already know very well that good men die in this war. You don't have to spare things for my sake, General Kenobi, sir."

For a moment he did little more than peer in the clone's eyes, carefully calculating as much as searching for some familiar common vein between them. But eventually he sighed, turning to look at Anakin once more.

"In that case, Rex, I simply don't know."


	10. Flashover

Rex remembered to salute, though he didn't think General Kenobi saw at all. Instead the General was finally going to get some rest, and Rex was standing guard. There had been some turning point; the bacta finally seemed to be working, and he had been assured that General Skywalker would be on his feet by the time they touched down on Coruscant. It was a superficial sort of return to normalcy but it was one Rex still appreciated. For at least a few more days he could stand guard knowing that nothing catastrophic was going to happen while his back was turned – that he wouldn't hear some buzzing klaxon from the medical bay which meant that he would have to polish his armor for a funeral. Even though, of course, his armor was already polished for such an occasion. Rex made a point to be prepared, after all.

General Skywalker was at least well enough to sit up when the Senator came to sit with him, and Rex spent the next fifteen minutes with his back turned to the door, staring at the opposite wall and trying to ignore whatever was reflected through the medbay's windows onto the wall's shining surface. After all, a husband and wife deserved privacy together. At least that is what Rex had been told, and it seemed to make sense. In the only life he knew there was little time for women (at least, real women, not holograms or paintings on the sides of starships), and the idea of a wife seemed impossible. He had to wonder how General Skywalker had time for it all.

He tried not to stare at the reflection, even as the Senator moved closer and knit her hand in General Skywalker's hair and they kissed deeply.

There were just all sorts of logistical issues, he reasoned. Would the Senator become Senator Skywalker? Or would the General take her name? He had to admit to himself that General Amidala didn't have quite the same ring to it. Truthfully, Rex couldn't understand what was going to eventually happen. The clones, his brothers, operated under more or less the same rule the Jedi did, or at least he thought that it was close enough to compare. Sure, some brother might have a girl for a week of shore leave, but there was an understanding that despite whatever he felt, he would be back on that transport with the rest when it came time to go. You left the port girls back at port, except for if she was especially stunning, then you brought along a holovid to have her painted on your company's transport. That was how things were, and it was a good little system, with few exceptions, and the only exception he knew was a damn deserter – so, Rex had long ago decided he didn't count.

In the reflection, the Senator's mouth moved as if whispering something tender and delicate, and the General's hand moved to caress at her face. She nuzzled against it, eyes closing, comforted by the touch.

Rex wondered if she was able to do so only after getting used to the one false hand he knew the General had before, or if there was something else to it. She certainly treated every detail as if it were the same, although she kept the high collared shirt he wore buttoned. He knew that the touch surely couldn't be the same – if nothing else, metal was cold and flesh was warm. Parsimony told him that it was likely because she loved him. And that made sense. For not the first time, Rex felt a sense of loss. There wasn't any room to have such love, not with the war, not with his duties. But it was a detached sense of loss, one that he had been trained into, like a citizen of a landlocked planet reflecting that he will never have fresh wild clams when he has never even had seafood before.

He had the feeling he probably should have stopped watching the blurred image of the reflection, especially as the kisses grew more intense and the first true ruddiness returned to General Skywalker's cheeks. He at least tried to look away as the Senator's hand started to run down the General's shirt with a distinctly seductive touch.

Rex was not able to see how her fingers, probing for the muscles and smooth skin she knew so well, accidentally found one of the switches of the chest panel of the suit he had been forced into. But he did hear the anguished, gurgling cry that General Skywalker gave, doubling over. The Senator flew back with a half shriek, the mood thoroughly broken as he gave sobbing gasps for breath and the medical droid wheeled over.

This time he turned around to watch through the window as the Senator stood there, shaking, trying and failing to keep her composure. She gave a bark of a sob and rushed to the small adjoining bathroom, locking the door behind her. His voice was ragged as he called out, pleading with her to come back, but as he huffed in pain it was obvious the moment was gone. Whatever illusion she had created of him whole and healthy had been broken.

Rex waited until things had calmed before stepping into the room. General Skywalker was shielding his face with a hand, almost as if ashamed, and it took a moment before Rex cleared his throat. "General Skywalker, sir –" He paused a moment more. Surely there wasn't anything that he could truly offer to help, but still, he felt that it was his duty – no, better than duty –

He didn't notice how Anakin's shoulders trembled slightly as he looked up to glare at Rex in a way that seemed wholly unnatural.

What General Skywalker actually said was lost to him, later. Rex only remembered the tone – deeper, harsher than he had ever known, as if someone else entirely had stepped into the General's body. Everything was blocked out by the near-immediate white blankness that swept over his mind as he felt his feet lift off the floor. He clawed desperately at his throat as if he could shake off what was choking him so easily, but it was useless – he gagged, feet kicking – the blank whiteness was seeping into his vision, now –

Abruptly he was released, and he gasped, coughing hard, dizzied.

He could hear General Skywalker's breaths also coming in terrified, half-sobbing gasps.

"Rex," he finally choked out, "I think you should go." It wasn't a demand, but instead a request, delivered in a voice that was shaking with fear.

But he was a good soldier and he knew how to follow orders, even as he staggered up, coughed, and rubbed at his throat. "Yes, sir."

"And Rex?"

"Yessir?"

"Don't… don't tell General Kenobi, please."

He hesitated at the door a moment before nodding and remembering he was good at following orders. "Yessir, General Skywalker."


	11. Backdraft

Rex was not a dumb man. He prided himself on this, just like all the brothers did.

About the seventh time General Skywalker apologized profusely, said it would never happen again, and begged him to _never tell General Kenobi_, he didn't get suspicious. He got wary. Very wary. It was against his better judgment to not follow orders, but the response seemed disproportionate to the crime – at least, that's what he told himself. It was much easier to look back at the incident and smooth it over. The General had been in pain, deep pain. His wife had just fled from his side, and something – well, something had happened to his health. The man had been through a lot. All sorts of torture and violence and pain. He just wasn't himself, that's all.

And that was just the problem, wasn't it?

Rex's mouth drew into a thin, tight frown. It was a double bind of following orders. The Generals were technically the same rank, and how much sway did seniority really hold? Was it even his information to divulge? And yet, he couldn't sit back and do nothing…

He stared at the bunk above him, stretched out, waiting for sleep to come instead of more worrying. It didn't – at least, not until he had the solution. Quietly, he reached out to grab his datapad; he was thankful for his rank as he gave himself a new assignment – part of Anakin Skywalker's personal honor guard.

It was the most unsubtle subtlety Obi-Wan had ever seen, and he also knew that it was a very pointed remark the entire Jedi Council had noticed: Padme, resplendent, in a series of cascading, fluttering robes that trailed down onto the floor in water-blue hues – but underneath it all, clearly, was her husband's Jedi tunic. He had graciously given his seat to her, with her dress as complicated as it usually was, although this made some bristle even more, despite its movement out of the circle. Well, he supposed, technically he had offered the seat to Anakin – but his former padawan stubbornly insisted on standing.

The inquest was fairly boring, or at least it was made to be so. Each question had been clinical and flat in delivery and response. Occasionally Anakin's voice shook, and halfway through he reached out to loosely hold hands with Padme, squeezing her fingers until one of the council glared pointedly enough to make them stop. But the dialog was a steady checklist of each injury. Left leg, droid blade. Right leg, lightsaber. Right arm, lightsaber. Left arm, slowly pulled apart at the elbow joint. Chest, droid blade. He did not know what sort of gas that had been forced into his lungs, only that it burned and tasted bitter and acrid.

But did he remember who had done these things to him? A very long pause, he swayed on his feet and reached for Padme's hand again. "Yes. She called herself Darth Allecto."

Master Fisto's voice was at least pleasant in its grim neutrality. "From our intelligence, Ahsoka Tano's intelligence transferred into droid bodies. Is this correct, Master Skywalker?"

He squeezed Padme's fingers tightly. "Correct."

There was a long moment of silence, after that, and conversation was slow to pick up again. It was confirmation of a threat the Council already knew, and one that they did not know how to react to yet. It was much easier, with the circumstances, to focus on the petty trivialities. The sunlight from outside slid across the floor, languishing into longer shadows, as the conversation trickled and became a steady flow like ice melting into mountain sloughs.

"I don't think you understand fully, Senator," Stass Allie said quietly, for the third time. "This is not a simple matter of tradition, this is a fundamental principle of the Jedi Order –"

"No tradition should continue to go unexamined," Padme replied hotly.

Mace Windu narrowed his eyes lightly at the sudden quick anger that flashed over Padme's face. "I would remind you, Senator, that this is Jedi business. You are only here because –"

"I am here because I _deserve_ to be here," she snapped before calming herself and drawing herself up more regally in her chair. "More importantly, there are outside factors to this decision, as I am sure you are well aware – it is a critical juncture for the Republic –"

"Senator, your efforts to blackmail the council by referencing popular opinion are not appreciated –"

"I am not _blackmailing_, please, Master Jedi. I am trying to _aid_ the council. Popular opinion is very real and truthfully still suspicious of the Jedi Order despite the evidence against Palpatine..."

Anakin continued to stand stoically, hands clasped behind his back. For half a moment he bowed his head and closed his eyes. Obi-Wan watched in quiet nervousness. "It's no trouble to bring in an extra chair, Anakin –"

"I'm fine, Master. Thank you."

"…and as much as we appreciate your concern, Senator, I fear you are missing the point. This Council must adhere to the rules and bylaws that define our order. Surely you must also recognize that you do not hold an unbiased opinion on this matter, given that the holotabloids have picked up this story and are sensationalizing it."

"I say this with the utmost respect, but you must realize that the Council does not hold an unbiased opinion in this matter _either_. The holotabloids have picked up the story only because they see it as some symbolic act that may tie the Republic and the Jedi together again. Making one exception to the rule could potentially –"

She was cut off by turning to see the movement out of the corner of her eye. It was silent, for the most part, and even Obi-Wan realized what was happening a little too late to catch him. Anakin's eyes had fluttered, and then rolled back into his head before closing – a long shudder, tilt, and finally falling forward like a solid oak finally uprooted by driving thunderstorms.

"_Ani!_" Padme moved so quickly that part of her fluttering dress was torn on the chair, kneeling by him to pet at his hair as Obi-Wan shook his shoulder and quietly moved a hand to his throat with a probing, questioning touch. She couldn't keep up with the Jedi calm, lapsing into light sobbing, even as a distinct tension ran underneath the Council's collective placid nature. "Ani, _please_, wake up –"

"Get a team from the Halls of Healing up here – he's not breathing," Obi-Wan said quietly, trying to maintain the placid calm despite his voice being distinctly strained. Even as Padme's cries grew in intensity and she lapsed into heavier sobbing, an eerie sort of calm almost radiated from the Jedi, mute and almost cold in the face of adversity. It was a contrast of words without action as Padme cried, helpless, and action without words, as Stass Allie crouched down to put a hand on his chest, letting the Force's healing at least sustain Anakin with quiet, forced gasps.

It was Plo Koon who had the boldness to reach out and pull down one of the high black gloves. "Sith Alchemy," he murmured, almost to himself, though it was really doing nothing more than verbalizing what many others had felt – finally a cause for the darkness that Skywalker seemed to be shedding like a bright comet's long tail.

Padme was never sure whether, for the long moments afterwards, if Obi-Wan was so quiet because he was worrying about Anakin or whether he was silently chastising himself for not noticing the dark alchemy symbols sooner.


	12. Snuffed

As he stepped into the room, her eyes widened. Although she was nearly blind, her clear blue eyes clouded over like glass that had survived a sandstorm, she still knew him from his presence in the Force. The auburn-haired young man waved at the droid guards to hold by the door as he casually walked to her bacta tank, and found which button to press.

And abruptly, her oxygen supply was cut off. But she did not panic – not yet.

"I would like to remind you of your place, Allecto."

He didn't look at her, even as her burnt hands pawed uselessly in the bacta. Instead he looked at his wrist, adjusting how the rich robes were laying on his sleeve.

"You are," Palpatine said slowly, vain enough to relish the sound of his own youthful voice, "ultimately, inferior. The Sith have always existed as two, master and apprentice. I am only allowing you to be my apprentice through graciousness: do not mistake yourself for anything special or important, Allecto. You are replaceable, and I will not hesitate in doing so."

Her hands scrambled against the glass as she started to thrash.

Elsewhere on the massive cruiser, a massive Xi Charrian fighter lifted its head, the akul-tooth headdress swinging. Furiously, it knocked the droids out of its way, scrambling through the hallways it could barely fit through.

"This failure of your plan was almost… endearing. But, as I expected, you childishly did not think of all of the consequences. The powerful deserve to rule the weak, and you are far from powerful – _yet_. But I will commend your pragmatism, though it ultimately means nothing: I will simply have more clones made. And I will deal with her myself. You haven't earned the satisfaction of seeing her dead."

The fighter kicked up sparks in its wake, steel hitting steel. And her raw fingers clawed at the glass of the tank in desperation.

"When you are my apprentice, you will obey me, Allecto."

And finally the fighter was in the doorway, but now it was starting to reel, almost as if drunk, one side and then the next as her connection to it began to fray. Her hands were moving slower, now, though more desperate as the remains of her fingernails squeaked against the glass.

Slowly, she nodded yes, stubby remains of her montrals trailing in the bacta.

"Very good," he said, finally drawing his hand away from the button, leaving her to desperately gasp in air and sink to the bottom of the bacta tank in defeat.

* * *

"General Kenobi?"

He looked up with a confused, half-asleep blink. It was rare for him to be referred to as General within the Jedi Temple, after all; even Padme had thoroughly dropped the honorific as it became clear that he was her only firm ally in the place. Truthfully, he had dozed off. It had been a hard night of watching healers run back and forth with panicky expressions that made him ill at ease, and rushed conversations in whispers that made him even more anxious for his former padawan's sake.

The slightly confused looking padawan before him repeated: "General Kenobi, sir? …They're asking for you in one of the conference rooms, sir – the clone troops wouldn't tell me anything more, just that a transmission with an odd codec has come through, and they're asking for you specifically."

"Odd codec?" He gingerly stretched his neck, getting up slowly as his body reminded him that, these days, he was a little too old for a chair to be a viable sleeping place.

"Yes, sir. One in use several months ago; it was discontinued as the Separatists had cracked it, as I understand." The padawan seemed almost excited, and he understood the impulse – anxious and excited to finally help with the war effort. Obi-Wan just wished that it didn't remind him so much of Anakin.

He waited a moment, staring through the nearby doorway a moment. What little was left of Anakin was there, Padme beside him. They had fallen asleep touching foreheads, craving closeness, and now their chests rose and fell in sync with each steady breath. He was glad to see the Jedi healers had the compassion not to chase her off – just sticking to quietly judging them with each glare across the room.

And the padawan looked at him expectantly. "I can show you the way, sir –"

"Thank you," Obi-Wan said tiredly, "but I know the way."

The conference room had been taken over by a small group of clone troops, a concession the Jedi Temple had made only to soothe public fears of a Jedi takeover. The troopers seemed to realize it was a joke position there only for political maneuvering, and had gotten along surprisingly well with the Jedi living within the temple, but now they seemed a little frazzled to finally be thrusted into their element again. One fumbled to salute. "General, sir –"

"At ease." He paused at the sound of his own voice. Was he really that exhausted? The answer was yes, of course, but letting the others see was a faux pas he had rarely indulged in.

"It's coming from a small cruiser, sir – out in Separatist territory, with an old codec, asking for you, sir. Could be a trap to somehow try and hack into the Council computer system –"

"Put it through." He said the words before realizing that he had said them, almost as if it was not his choice, but instead the Force putting something into motion.

He was not expecting her, not after Boz Pity.

"_Ventress?_"

"General Kenobi!" She took in a gasp of a breath, preparing herself to speak as quickly as she could. "Please – I realize I have no right to ask favors, but I don't have much time – they're on Korriban, he moved them there, he'll likely move them again – I tried to destroy as many as I could, but the job needs to be finished, do you understand – it needs to be _ended_ –"

"Slow down! Slow down, please, and explain –"

They locked eyes, and it was suddenly as if he saw her for the first time. He had never noticed how blue her eyes were, or the curve of her jawline, the elegant swoop of her nose – even the charm in how her lip trembled, on the edge of blurting out another word. There was a sincerity and grace that was new, and that he recognized, of the Light instead of the Dark.

"There's not time to explain," she begged. He realized it was the first time he had seen her truly afraid, not trying to bluster through on arrogant confidence fueled by anger. "Please, go to Korriban – check every cloning facility the Republic owns, he's hidden them everywhere – it needs to be finished –" A loud clatter from behind her; the holovid camera swung out of focus to show the door in the background and the lightsaber slowly cutting through it. "He's here, he's _here_ – not yet, please – " The pitch of her voice rose in panic. "General Kenobi, _promise me you'll finish it!_"

He gaped as he watched. "Ventress – who is _he?_ –"

"_Promise me, Kenobi_ –" And she was cut off, his name going into a gurgling scream as lightning seemed to arc through the door to hit her. After barely a second of seeing her writhe, the lightning jumped to the camera, and the holovid feed switched to blank static before displaying an error message.

The silence stretched out, perfect and complete, as Obi-Wan slowly lowered himself to sit in the chair before the holovid screen. It was an unfamiliar rush of feelings, suddenly assaulting him, but he realized that there was no time to reflect on his own thoughts.

"Send a medical frigate to the location of the transmission," he finally said slowly.

"Sir? That's in Separatist territory, sir –"

"Have a cruiser accompany it. But send it. What ship is closest to that star system?"

"Uh… the _Kobaysh_, sir. Four hours and twenty minutes is the estimated time to arrival." The clone continued diligently transmitting the orders before speaking again, voice a little softer: "Should I tell them to prepare for a victim of, ah, electrocution, sir, and send orders that she's to be sent to the Jedi Temple?"

"Yes, please. Thank you."

And the silence settled in again. Eventually Obi-Wan caught himself chewing on his own thumbnail, and wondered blankly when he had taken up that nervous habit again. The last time, Qui-Gon had jokingly threatened to paint his fingernails with hot sauce, and Satine had laughed…

"Sir, the comm channel's re-opening," a clone said quickly, sounding alarmed.

"Put it through."

A young man smiled at him. He was handsome – Obi-Wan loathed himself for noticing, when he finally realized why the features looked familiar. But the figure leaned back, knitting his fingers together and smiling broadly. "Ah, General Kenobi. I was hoping it was you."

"Palpatine." There was more of a snarl in his voice than he would have liked.

"Excellent, you _do_ recognize me. I have no doubt that you will faithfully report my message to the Jedi Council," he said almost lazily. There was another voice, now, off to the side, out of the holovid camera's range. He realized after a moment that the hoarse, hysterical screams for 'Narec' were Ventress', even as she lapsed into a rough, growling language that he assumed to be Rattataki. "My demands are very clear. I am simply – Asajj. Would you follow _one_ order competently?" He turned his head and sighed, though it was almost staged, as if he was doing it where Obi-Wan could clearly see. Raising a hand, there was the snarl of a lightsaber blade moving through the air, then a gurgling scream. "My apologies, General. Where were we? Ah – yes. Please let the council know that despite their efforts…." A flick of the hand, the noise of the lightsaber blade moving: another anguished scream. "…I will be coming back to reclaim what is mine."

"It's never been yours, you monster –"

"Truly? You are so charmingly naiive, General. But I'm afraid instead of discussing the wonders of lightsabers and self-cauterizing wounds for torture –" Another lazy wave, humming buzz, scream. Just like the times before, Obi-Wan flinched at hearing it. "I have other matters to attend to. I will not be kept from my empire, Kenobi."

The camera was nudged out of focus. A few seconds and the holovid picture finally rectified: Ventress, lips parted slightly as if about to sigh, blue eyes still flared open wide. Makeshift spikes pinned her to the wall, one in each shoulder. And her arms and legs were gone – smoothly cut off by a lightsaber blade. The wide gash in her chest was the final wound, obviously so: a macabre spectacle, her wounds mirroring Anakin's…

He caught himself chewing on his thumbnail again. Almost angrily, he pushed himself out of the chair, standing up straight, putting a hand to his forehead a moment.

"General?" One of the clones questioned softly.

"Open a comm line to the Kobaysh, and tell them to ignore those orders. And open another to the Jedi Archivists." Was his voice really shaking that badly? He paused, gulping. "Tell them that Master Narec's records should be updated to reflect that he did take one padawan, who redeemed herself into the Light with her death –"

He paused, gulping a moment.

"Never mind," he said softly. "I'll do it myself. She deserves that much."

The silence continued long after he left the room.


	13. Accelerant  1

As Anakin went through surgery after surgery, and Padmé found herself caught in the web of hearings and political upheaval, the apartment in 500 Republica grew quiet. It didn't unnerve Rex in the least. It was a natural quiet, not an eerie silence before the storm. Besides, he knew he was where he needed to be. He stood at the hospital door stubbornly until Anakin had called for him in a rasping voice that didn't seem like the General at all. But the orders were clear. _Go protect them_. And so he did.

It wasn't silence, just quiet, and every so often Rex would hear one of the children crying, or laughing. Usually it was just himself, the droids perhaps, the children, and Sabé. As soon as he met her – recovering from her own injuries as she was – there was an immediate understanding between them, as two persons in service. Both of them realized they would only achieve second-hand greatness. Perhaps they would be footnotes in a larger story, but it was gratifying to know that, in a perverse way. No matter what either of them did, they would not be a historical figure on their own. They could only support the Senator and the General. And they did, with a ferocious loyalty.

She asked him every so often to help her, and he was happy to do so. After a week he could tell Luke and Leia apart by looking at them, even if Sabé claimed she could do so by cry alone. The handmaiden was apparently close enough to their mother that the infant children were content.

Otherwise, he politely kept his distance, and she did the same.

They were alone again, and the children were asleep, when she wandered behind him curiously. It was calm enough for him to have put down his gun and picked up a datapad. It was boredom and not nosiness that drove her to wander over to him and peer over his shoulder.

"Anything interesting?"

Her voice and footsteps were familiar enough that he didn't flinch. Instead he tilted the datapad up for her to see. "New additions to the arsenal list, ma'am."

"Oh, more attachments for the DC-17 system," she said quickly, sounding somewhat disappointed. "I'm glad that they're lighter than the DC-15s, but they had a model of sidearm in prototype at one time – a DC-22 – nice and light. It fit in my hand perfectly."

With a slow blink, he looked up at her. She smiled. And he smiled back, though he didn't quite know why, although he was keenly aware of seeing the handmaiden in a suddenly different light. "There's an optional grip for the DC-15 pistols, ma'am. I still havemine if you'd like to try it."

"You can just call me Sabé now, Rex," she teased gently. "And I'd like that, if you don't mind."

When he returned to his quarters that night, his face hurt from smiling so much. Like the amazing invention of the wheel, Rex alone out of all his clone trooper brothers had rediscovered the secret of flirting. And Sabé appreciated his naiveté. The scars on her face and hands were not repulsive to him; they were simply another part of her. They did not make her incompetent – as some would assume – or too frail to do anything. And he didn't use their occasional excursions out for target practice as an excuse to get closer – at least until she invited him to. Even then it still took until her fifth request for him to catch on and actually wrap his arm around her under the pretense of helping her double-check her aim.

By the time she gave him a kiss on the cheek every time they parted for the night, Rex was suddenly very sure he understood a mystery that had eluded him. How General Skywalker had the time for his wife was still a question in his mind, but now he knew the appeal.


	14. Accelerant 2

His lungs were already felt as if they were about to burst, but still, Obi-Wan couldn't run fast enough.

It was a carefully planned attack, down to the day, if not the hour, or the very minute. Both Anakin and Padmé were at the Republic's Judicial building – the first day he had been able to come to her defense, testifying against the charges of her seducing a Jedi. Both in the same building. A building equipped with failsafe after failsafe and intricate defensive systems. Forcefields. Rotating passcodes. Blast doors. A citadel, because it had to be. Madmen had come through its doors, and they would pass through them again.

He just hoped that Padmé and Anakin would get _out_.

Small fires dotted the building – another was added as the droid fighters shot down another clone. He saw the streak of flame at the turn of another set of stairs. There was no time to stop, despite the way his legs were burning, and how his body was screaming at him that he was far too old for this sort of thing. The spire shook as another droid fighter was finally shot down, and the scream of blaster fire was still clearly audible from the dogfighting outside. A crackle from his comlink, half-shouted, let him know that the holonet lines had been opened again. A confirmation of where he needed to go. That was all Obi-Wan needed: he purposefully ignored the play-by-play of what they could see. Or, at the very least, he tried, but his own screaming muscles couldn't distract him fully. Padmé locked in the prisoner's restraints. Anakin trying to defend himself. A discussion – Anakin putting his lightsaber away. Fear clawed at the back of his throat. _What was going on?_

Inertia nearly made him slam against the wall as he made a sharp turn down the last corridor. The dim glow from a forcefield was all he needed to see. Although he knew it was useless, his lightsaber was already drawn. He slammed it against the energy shield.

And Anakin didn't look up, even as Obi-Wan's lightsaber screamed against the shield.

He was on his knees, looking up at the man before him, enthralled, entranced. Obi-Wan already knew no matter what he did, Anakin would not look up to hear. But it didn't stop him from trying, just as how Padmé, trapped as she was, continued to scream and slam her hands against her imprisoning shield.

"Anything," Anakin begged. The red light from the lightsaber lit up his face as the blade hovered by his shoulder, ready to deliver an honoring tap or a final blow.

"Anything?" The other man smiled, and despite the youthfulness, Obi-Wan finally placed his voice. Palpatine – coy and calm. "Even yourself, as my apprentice – fully embracing the dark side to save her?"

Both of them were screaming his name, now. The frustration rising in Obi-Wan's throat, stinging like bile, his own darkness sneaking up on him unaware. Padmé was sobbing, palms of her hands raw after slamming them again and again on the energy field.

"Anything," Anakin gasped out again. And the red glow of the lightsaber reflected in his blue eyes.

Carefully, Palpatine raised his head to lock eyes with Obi-Wan. And he smiled beautifully. Obi-Wan saw a spark of something truly terrifying there: a Sith Lord about to adapt a plan to seize a rare opportunity.

And he wasn't sure if Palpatine mouthed the words, or if they echoed through the Force – or if it was merely his own imagination. But, eyes locked, the Sith smiled at him. _Watch carefully, Kenobi. You are about to lose an adopted son the same way you lost an adopted father._

"You realize, Skywalker," he purred, "you are – and always have been – a terrible liar."

And Obi-Wan could only watch and scream as Anakin writhed in the grip of the Sith's force lightning.


	15. Arsonist

At least Kenobi had been successful in drawing him away: Palpatine had to at least admire that bit of cleverness, even if he did so in a condescending way. He would humor the Jedi, at least for the moment, because he represented a delicious opportunity. Skywalker had been a straightforward case. But Kenobi – it was thrilling to have shaken the normally stoic Jedi so very badly. Victory was so close. A mere hour, he estimated, and Kenobi would be his, and then he would get to sit back and enjoy the favourite sport of Sith Masters everywhere: watching Apprentices turn on another.

But now, somewhere, Kenobi was hiding.

A few disconnected wires snapped somewhere down the hall: the roof had caved in halfway thanks to a droid fighter which came spiraling down to their floor, bringing half a desk from several floors up with it. The electricity buzzed idly, and the sparks were all that remained of the overhead lighting. Palpatine knew if he tried, he could easily flush out Kenobi from wherever he was hiding – but where was the fun in that?

Lazily, the tip of his lightsaber dragged against a bit of wreckage, gauging into the transparisteel. "I found it quite amusing," he drawled slowly, "that in her last moments, Ventress _actually_ believed you gave a damn about her."

Nothing. The shadows were silent. Not that the remark was wholly lost. But he knew how to gradually work his way up to build a larger point.

"Almost as amusing, you could say, as your willingness to leave Anakin to die alone. Perhaps that's one of your habits, Kenobi. I understand your master died without his supposedly loyal padawan by his side."

One of the shadows flinched. Palpatine smiled: he was getting closer.

"You have to come out eventually," he taunted. "The more time you waste, the more time I have to compose your epitaph." He forced his voice to be more booming, as if addressing the senate, solemn gravitas on his lips along with the smirking snarl. "You'll have to let me know what you think of the first draft: here lies Obi-Wan Kenobi, the useless negotiator, unable to save everything he ever loved –"

And finally, a blue lightsaber lashed out to meet his own, and Palpatine smiled, lowering his voice to a whisper as he continued. "…because _words do nothing_." There was a wonderful irony, there, as he could tell his words were making the Jedi scowl.

Leaning into the block, Obi-Wan desperately tried to silence the voice in the back of his head that was trying to rationalize the growing anger clawing at the back of his throat. It surely wasn't that bad. Just once. Just this once, to kill this scum – this murderer who had hurt so many. Maybe he wasn't aiming to kill Palpatine for Anakin's sake or Ventress' sake. Maybe it was for all the lives lost in this pointless orchestrated war. That wasn't revenge: it was justice. Just this once –

A few more strokes. The lightsaber blades clashed against one another, and as they locked, Palpatine's eyes met Obi-Wan's. A sudden numbness washed over him, like a cresting wave meeting the shore. It was a glimpse at the future, or _a_ future, but weighed down in cold certainty as it was pressed into his memory. Palpatine would crucify Satine the same way he had Ventress, only more slowly, so he could listen to her scream his name. Palpatine would make him watch as Anakin sobbed out his last breath, as Padmé was driven to such sorrow that in her madness killing her children and then herself seemed her only option. Even Artoo, the droid he begrudgingly counted as something of a friend – taken apart gear by gear.

_Everything he ever loved…_

Anger surged in him, pressing forward, breaking the block and making Palpatine stumble back. But the aggressive swing was too wide. Almost immediately Obi-Wan gave a sharp cry, one arm going to clamp down sharply against his side. It was a teasing blow, just like a cat letting its prey try to hop away despite broken wings and crushed ribs. Palpatine did not follow up on the attack, even as Obi-Wan gasped against the gash in his side. It was a reminder that Palpatine had the power to kill him.

More than that, he grimaced against feeling his own flesh sliding underneath his arm, the bloodless cauterized wound making a perfect window – more than that, it was a reminder coupled with that same cold numbness. It was all the same fundamental essence, the same firmament holding the universe together. He had always assumed it was compassion. It seemed inevitable that he would be proved wrong.

Palpatine waited, hanging back, not pressing the attack. Instead, he waited to be attacked – for that anger to again move Obi-Wan to action. The red light from his lightsaber illuminated his beautiful smile, and he mouthed a command: _Give in._

Obi-Wan sucked in a shuddering breath through his teeth, and scrambled to retreat as best he could.

Of course Palpatine gave chase, but he took his time, swaggering back down the hallway and enjoying a laugh at Kenobi's expense.

By then Padmé had given up, her weeping muffled by the forcefield that contained her, only trying weakly to claw her way out. Anakin's muttered wheezing still echoed, though Obi-Wan couldn't see where he was in the rubble. His head was swimming – voices on the comlink chattering at him, reinforcements on the way…

Palpatine raised his lightsaber, grinning widely. "We both know how this will end, Kenobi," he taunted in a velvety purr. "What are you waiting f-"

The last word was interrupted in a spluttering gag.

In some sense, fate is conserved, a natural force like mass and energy. It was fate that Palpatine would be killed by a certain person. It acted accordingly to make sure this happened, and even though the circumstances were quite different, his murder was as satisfying as his killer had ever imagined.

Youthful lips pursing in confusion, Palpatine looked down in shock to his own chest. There was no cloned body prepared to leap into. There was just the point of some knick-knack – some metal paperweight, shaped into a slim pyramid, removed from its natural habitat of some pedantic judge's desk, placed somewhere entirely different. With a predictable sort of hubris, he stared, uncomprehending, at the makeshift weapon and the way the bloodstain was blossoming on his embroidered robes. Life seemed to drain out of him feet-first, his knees buckling as he fell to the floor. Even in death he still lightly gaped in shock. It was not something he had planned for.

Obi-Wan resisted the urge to hack his body to pieces out of sheer primal frustration.

He was too busy being absolutely terrified.

Anakin had dragged himself up, clawing at the marble floor. His shoulders were shaking, frame supported more by his own rage than anything else. The overturned table had been easy cover. It had also provided something appropriately murderous when his own lightsaber could not be found. Blood poured from burst vessels in his nose down onto his lips, then more down his chin where, in his painful thrashing, he had left a deep bite in his own lower lip. He was dragging in each heavy breath through a snarl, fury sustaining him where his own body and artificial replacements had failed.

By the time Obi-Wan noticed what a vivid, burning yellow his eyes were, the Jedi was very certain that was not Anakin, but someone – some_thing_ – else entirely. His padawan had been stolen and replaced with something inhuman.

It was almost a relief when his strength gave out and he collapsed back down again. It was certainly a relief when the clone troopers and fellow Jedi arrived, too late to be properly useful, but still desperately needed. And Obi-Wan let Padmé's soft weeping and the calls of the healers dissolve into the noise of the battle outside.


	16. Herostratic

"Breach in the north hallway - damn, lost contact with the north guard!"

"There's no time to flank them -"

"I know! _I know!_"

It was the first time Rex had seen Sabé truly flustered, but as the supports of 500 Republica groaned around them, it was hard to keep calm. As sturdy as the skyscraper was, it surely hadn't been built to withstand multiple impacts from Separatist fighters...

Sabé reached up to listen intently to the comm chatter coming through on her earpiece. Rex surely would have heard it if he had been listening, but he was too focused on shooting down the last battle droid. Groups were coming through piece by piece, inserted through the holes that each kamikaze fighter made in the skyscraper. Inch by inch, the clankers were gaining ground, but Rex was sure that within an hour the suicidal attack would cease and the droids would be pushed back. Maybe it was just for show - just to scare them. Panic was a powerful tool in warfare. But he could keep calm, and Sabé certainly could as well. They would get out of this perfectly fine -

"Rex!" One last shot, and he turned to look at her, trying not to be distracted by the deep brown of her eyes. "Rex, they're heading for the nursery!"

She took off running first, trusting him to pick off whatever droids followed. It was easy enough, despite the fact that they were fighting in such tight quarters. He didn't have the same emotional attachment Sabé did to the various minutiae of the apartment, and didn't try to not rip the expensive carpet or save each expensive vase given as a gift. But the panic in Sabé's voice made Rex nervous.

The twins were still screaming, voices going hoarse by now. The battle was raging around them, and the building swayed as another Vulture-class droid slammed into it. Even though Rex stumbled, Sabé continued running, taking out another battle droid that had managed to worm its way into the apartment.

Rex had long since decided that letting himself be ever-so-slightly distracted by things like how gracefully she lined up another shot was just fine.

"There's a choke point at the nursery door -"

"Go on, I've got your back!" There wasn't enough time to try and give her an encouraging smile. Not that Rex was very used to that sort of thing, anyway. Smiling didn't really matter when everyone was wearing the same type of helmet...

The building rocked again, and he flung a hand up to protect his face as a spray of transparisteel shards and marble flooring fell through. It brought him to his knees, but one blaster remained out, blindly aiming. Another crash made it impossible to scramble to his feet immediately. They were precision strikes, driving through the tall skyscraper to bring each Vulture-class fighter to the Senator's apartment. His way was blocked: he knew that before the dust cleared. It was a blind shot, but maybe it would be lucky -

The laser beam ricocheted neatly off of the droid, arcing out to burn a smear on the floor.

Somewhere in the dust ahead of him, mechanics groaned - large metal plating shifted before a claw-like arm of the modified Vulture droid swung up. The point of its leg screamed against the marble as it dragged itself up into a proper fighting stance.

But the voice - the odd cadence made his hair stand on end - it was sweet and innocent yet emotionless at the same time, bird-like and chirping, pitch rising and falling in a wholly unnatural way, programmed by a Xi Charrian who knew _of_ Basic but had never understood it.

"That is no way to greet a friend, Rex."

The dust was starting to settle, now. Even though he was aware of the hulk of another fighter at his back, pinning him down, he stumbled back, both blasters out in front of him. And the fighter took a step forward, making the marble screech again. "You're no friend of mine, you damn clanker."

"Don't I at least get a hello, Rex?" The droid cooed. "Not even a wave for your Commander Snips? Your favourite togruta?"

And he finally saw the akul-tooth necklace swinging from the droid's neck. He gulped solidly before replying. "The Ahsoka I knew would never do this," he said as boldly as he could manage.

"But _Rex_," the droid chirped, tone oddly manic and flat at the same time, "I never said I was _Ahsoka_ anymore."

It took another step forward - _it_, because Rex refused to think of it as Ahsoka in any way. The lights overhead flickered, and he scrambled underneath the droid as quickly as he could. The few shots he managed to get off were only to distract it - the keening, mechanical shriek of fury it gave echoed through the hallway. And the doorway to the nursery was so close - if he could just get there, then they could set up a barricade, buy enough time for reinforcements -

He was halfway through screaming Sabé's name when the missile arced over him and the world exploded around him.

Darkness went as quickly as it came. Blood in his mouth - probably lost a tooth or two, but that didn't matter. Something was crushing him, one of the transparisteel supports that had fallen. Arm broken. Probably a few ribs. But he could drag in a breath, then cough. It wasn't over yet. It _couldn't_ be. The twins were still screaming, and he could hear Sabé's voice -

"Don't take a step further! You aren't going to -"

The droid's cortosis-weave arm lashed out, impaling her. The few shots she managed to make bounced off uselessly. He tried to scream her name, breathless as he was, in the hope she would hear before the Xi Charrian fighter slammed her body against the wall, knocking her out.

And the children were _still_ screaming, though Luke's voice - was that Luke? Rex was unsure - was hoarse to the point of starting to disappear...

Both of his blasters were out of his reach, scattered on the floor with the rest of the debris. But if he twisted his hand back... yes, there it was. Not quite a thermal detonator, but a grenade. It would do. It would at least make sure that Ahsoka - no, he corrected himself, _that damn thing_ - wouldn't get out alive.

The droid whipped around to glare at him, akul-tooth necklace swinging, as it dragged Sabé's unconscious body across the floor, making a bloody mark on the fine marble. "Put that away, Rex."

It was harder to breathe, but he tried to say something anyway, dragging the grenade up to where the droid could see.

"Rex," it cooed, "you don't want to do that." He coughed, trying to respond, but the droid continued speaking in the same manic, chirpy tone. "You know General Skywalker doesn't believe in collateral damage. You'll be shielded from the blast, enough to survive."

"It doesn't -" he choked - "doesn't matter, you're not taking them -"

"I know you, Rex. I know you can't tell Anakin that you killed his children just so you could get one of the many droid bodies I have. I'll come back. I _always_ will." She - _it_, Rex corrected himself - sounded so damned cheerful with that odd lilt to her voice...

"Give me the grenade, and when I leave, I won't take the medkit."

The droid dragged Sabé a little farther, and she groaned.

"You know that without it, she'll bleed out faster than help can arrive."

His hand trembled on the grenade.

"You aren't going to be able to win, Rex. Either she dies, and the children die, and I will kill you another day if General Skywalker doesn't kill you first. ...Or we all live. You know what to do."

The anger was crushing his chest as much as the support beam. Gently, his fingertips squeezed at the grenade, just enough to let it roll out from underneath the rubble.

And the droid snatched it up. "I knew you would make the right choice," it chirped cruelly. Still keeping Sabé pinned to the floor, it reached out to grab at the crib. The infants' sobbing died down to a mumble - soothed by some mist of a drug he couldn't see - before, spider-like, it wrapped both of them up and tucked them deep into some hidden compartment within the fighter-droid itself. He couldn't watch, partially because of the way the shadows were threatening to close in on him again, but he knew he couldn't let himself slip into unconsciousness again - not yet...

Mutely, it kicked the medkit off of the wall and towards him, a final act before it withdrew its leg-spike from Sabé's middle. The building rocked again as it made its way out of the building, crashing through the wall to finally reach the sky outside. Immediately it was joined by the other Vulture-class fighters, a tight protective formation. It peeled the entire battle away with it. The mission was, apparently, complete - as far as its orders had been given. And with the only other commander gone, Palpatine betrayed by his apprentice's lack of support, the droids followed it out.

The building groaned like an injured prize-fighter left barely standing after the last round. But the wind outside picked up, nearly muffling the scream of the warning sirens. It was still an eerie silence as the battle abruptly ceased. No time to think of that, now. Rex gave a dull roar of pain as he managed to free himself from the rubble, but a dislocated shoulder was an acceptable loss as he dragged himself over to Sabé's side and fumbled open the medkit to hastily apply a bacta patch to her swiftly-bleeding wound.

His comlink crackled to life. "500 Republica team, report. ...500 Republica? - Sabé, come in. Sabé? Rex? _CC-7567, report!_"

He couldn't think of words to explain, so he didn't answer.


	17. Philuméniste

((This is a somewhat short chapter. My sincere apologies! The next chapter is going to be a very intense one, so consider this calm before the storm, perhaps.))

And Obi-Wan continued to be unable to sleep.

The pain in his side truly wasn't that bad, and the healers scurrying back and forth kept their voices politely low - especially as they passed by his room. He knew gallows humor was a doctor's best friend, but hearing one of them cheerfully joke that they were glad they had ordered spare parts was a little much. He shared in the same gladness, of course: it meant his former padawan was doing as well as could be expected. There was talk that Anakin would even get out sooner than Obi-Wan would, since electronics were easy enough to replace. But Kenobi thought it well within his rights to be irritated when they started talking about Anakin like an antique airspeeder languishing in someone's garage...

He'd kept busy, but apparently not busy enough. His mind still buzzed with anxiousness that gnawed at the edges of whatever forced, meditative calm he could muster. Off in the distance, there were footsteps, someone making nightly rounds. In the dim light, he could see the tile design in the ceiling, all forty-three green squares - he knew because he had counted them.

As long as he kept thinking about anything else...

But there wasn't anything else, not tonight. Before there had been Rex's report, then he had managed to get the clone to actually come visit him. It was obvious enough what Rex had been doing to himself, with his slightly slurred speech and glazed-over eyes, that Obi-Wan quietly put in the order that all medkits Rex had access to should be re-stocked with tranquilizers, beta-blockers and anxiolytics. Rex repeated what had been put in the report in an exhausted, rote manner. Obi-Wan had thought that his comment of, "You did the right thing, Rex," would have helped much more than it actually did. Then he asked after Sabé, and got the too truthful answer that the handmaiden was recovering well, despite Padmé coming to visit her more than once, intending to comfort her friend, every visit ending in the same pattern of senator sobbing while the handmaiden tried to soothe her. Then he had asked gently if Rex had gone to see Sabé yet, in a way that he hoped communicated some measure of approval for the relationship. Rex had stared off into the middle distance and mumbled something about work keeping him busy.

Tonight, Obi-Wan understood completely.

If he could just get up and move, that would be better. But strict bed rest was his alternative to being knocked out and dunked in bacta. As much as he would love to meditate with soul and body both, to think only of the Force flowing through him into each honed battle stance, that was impossible right now. And the anxiousness continued to gnaw at him, like a thousand termites going to the support beams in the mansion of his mind. Tonight the floorboards would cave in.

Kenobi did not consider himself naiive. But there had always been the knowledge that underneath it all there was peace, there was serenity, there was joy. The Dark side was merely the corruption of the essential firmament of the universe. At the base of it all was balance. His job, as it always had been, was to reconstruct what had been torn apart, purify the sullied, right the wrong. That was a Jedi's duty: to fight entropy and maintain peaceful order.

But what he had seen - what he had seen...

The unholy yellow-red that had invaded Anakin's eyes - the inhuman snarl - the hatred so thick Obi-Wan swore he tasted it in the air, coppery-bright like blood in his mouth. Whatever had replaced his former padawan with a monster seemed to come from base, essential part of the universe, one that he had never thought existed. It was what made Obi-Wan realize that hate was much older than love. Simple retaliatory pain was well established by the time any creature evolved a set of jaws. _If you bite me, I will bite you back._ And that was all he had seen in Anakin - blind instinct to hurt those who had hurt _him_...

The idea that the universe was built on hatred and strife - that the natural order of things was blood and claws and fangs - that he was fighting against it by trying to keep peace - that he was _interfering_ - that he was fighting a losing battle against natural order itself...

The longer he thought about it the more he had to clench his jaw to suppress a fit of deep shuddering.

Obi-Wan wasn't quite sure why this bothered him so very much, but the numb realization made it harder to gather those threads of calm in his mind, much less weave them into a tapestry of peaceful meditation.

Maybe if he could simply talk with someone. A gentle reminder of the good in the universe. Someone to tell him with a smile that he was worrying too much. Maybe even a smile and a light slap to the back of the head, as if the anxiousness was physical and could be dislodged with a good smack. Not another Jedi. This was not a problem that would be solved with a several day long discussion about philosophy and an inquiry from the Council into his mental health. He needed someone to laugh and smile and ask him why it even really mattered.

His hand was most of the way to the nearby comm panel before he even knew it was there. For a few moments his fingertips hovered over the softly glowing buttons.

Satine would surely tell him what he needed to hear - that he should stop being ridiculous and get back to resting, and remind him of the good in the universe that was still there...

A moment more and he clenched his hand into a fist and pulled back, staring at the ceiling again. There wasn't any use to it, anyway. He would just get a secretary or personal assistant, if not just a recording. And even if he could reach her... well, he didn't want to wake her - that was it. That was his excuse, at least.

He had never known the Halls of Healing to be so very cold.


	18. EscharAnhedonia

It wasn't home anymore but Anakin was there anyway.

As soon as he was able to stagger up on his own, she had begged and they had conceded and now he was trapped in 500 Republica with her. Anakin wasn't sure of the point. They spent their days trying to politely avoid one another, or maybe she was just trying to avoid him, he wasn't certain... maybe she was trying to avoid the apartment which seemed so desperately empty without their children. Rex at least continued to stand guard, but he was far from companionship in the long days when Padmé hurried off to be busy about some political affair or another.

The clone commander had apologized to him, and Anakin had told Rex that he did the right thing and all he could, and Rex said thank you sir, and neither of them meant it, but it was an exchange they were expected to have, so they did. It was a social, superficial dance. It was politics. Anakin hated it.

The window was dark, as deep into night as Coruscant ever got, and Padmé had snuck in to keep from waking him. He didn't feel like breaking the illusion of being asleep, so he waited for her to settle down in the bed beside him. When she finally started to snore softly, her back was facing him. Anakin had the vague sensation that he should have been more upset about this than he really was. It was simply things as they were.

And the melody of a leitmotif continued to scurry around his head like a small trapped animal. He could feel it crawl out of one eye socket onto his cheek and then onto his lips and then slip into his mouth and wriggle there before burrowing, burrowing, back in again, out again. It was from an opera he had gone to see officially as the Chancellor's bodyguard, unofficially as his protégée (he understood that, now), a modern retelling of an old story, a modern framing for an ancient song, the song of Revan. He knew the title Revanchist, but the details had always been obscured, even in Jedi archives; a paragon in the end, yes, but so many details were lost... so many details burned away, like his own fingerprints or the freckle that had been on his middle toe. He envied Revan, because the Revanchist wasn't there to have to cope living broken and deformed and only half a person, if not less -

But the song...

Slowly, he turned to drag himself out of bed, noting dully that he had worn his boots to sleep - again - along with the leather gloves. It wasn't as if there was anything underneath them. He wondered if the charade of humanity the clothing kept up was for his sake or for Padmé's or if it even really mattered. The clean white bathroom seemed brilliantly light, and he closed the door behind him before going to stare at his reflection in the mirror. When had he become so pale? Were his eyes truly that bloodshot? Maybe it was obvious why Padmé tried to avoid him...

And gingerly, his fingertips found the edge of his collar, and pulled, and pulled. He let the world fall into a blur, eyes going unfocused as his head dropped. If he could just... if he could pull it away, if he could tear it out of himself... what a blissful thought! His fingertips dug deeper. It was probably painful. He couldn't tell. After a moment he gave a soft laugh as his fingers worked open flesh. He would get it out. He would get it _out_. Maybe he would die, but he would die himself. It didn't hurt, it felt wonderful, it felt _so wonderful_.

Blood spattered into the white basin of the sink below.

A little more, a little more, he nearly had it, the edge of the panel that was in his chest. A wire, finally, a wire, he would pull it out, he could rip it, he could tear it, it would be out of him... He looped a finger around the wire and gently tugged. The thudding of his heartbeat slowed, and the room did a neat pirouette as the drop in blood pressure hit him. It was bliss. It would all be over so soon. But first - first, he had to find more wires. He did not want to die with this _thing_ inside him. There had to be more, there had to be more - he choked softly and drew in a rasping breath, tugging, prying. The next breath became a cough, became a laugh.

Finally, he looked up. The melody scurried over his face again, squirming out of tears, drawing across his cheek, into his mouth to join the blood there - he saw it, he _saw_ it - and he tugged again. More blood in the basin. Room staggered, swooned. Hold on to the sink. Look up, look up - the mirror... He knew that mask. _The Revanchist._ A pillar of shadow, with the mask inset, standing behind him in the cold white bathroom.

And he began to laugh.

He was going insane. He was seeing things. _He was finally insane._

He couldn't stop laughing. Feebly, he reached out with the Force to flip on the sonic shower, hoping the noise would keep Padmé from hearing. And he kept laughing. Oh Force, he was insane! Normally he would have started to panic, or to doubt himself, to try and pull himself together - but now he laughed, and laughed - he couldn't stop laughing -

"It isn't my fault," he gasped out around hysterics. "It's not my fault, it's not my fault -" Force, the most beautiful words he had ever heard! If he was insane, it was the insanity, it was something external... he could feel it pressing on him, tearing at his thoughts. It wasn't his fault. He was being forced, being pressed into something. It was so wonderful, he had finally realized...

Reaching up to wipe away a few tears of laughter, he left a bloody streak on his face. The image of Revan wavered and stepped forward. It was the closest he would get to a benevolent god, a manifestation of the Force he could reason with, so he wept while laughing and chanting: _thank you, thank you, it's not my fault, thank you..._

The shadow seemed to change shape ever so slightly, mask moving, tilting its head at him. And the music dug into his mind so strongly that it hurt, trying to bring the lyrics with it. He remembered the opera, now... a tragedy of the Old Republic. For all the miracles, Revan's gender was always left as ambiguous as the mask was perfectly defined. The song had been a lament of Revan as she left her lover behind, the last song before she went out into deep space never to be seen again...

In one brilliant moment, he understood.

The opera was wrong. It had presented her on noble conquest. It was the opposite. Once you were stained, there was no being clean. It was only a matter of time. It wasn't his fault, but it would only be a matter of time. She was here to tell him to take the same path, to do the right thing. He was infected. He was impure. He would hurt her, he would hurt everyone. This disease would spread from him to another to another to another and strangle them all with blood and wires and electronics.

It wasn't a crusade, it was a quarantine.

Anakin had never been so sure of anything in his entire life.

And he still couldn't stop laughing, and sobbing, thanking her, reveling in how it wasn't his fault. The blood smeared on the edge of the sink as his legs failed him and he slumped to the floor. There was a greater purpose, now. He knew what he needed to do.

After he could finally stand again, he managed to wrap a bit of a towel into a makeshift bandage for his chest. He barely remembered doing so. Instead the thoughts buzzed around his head and burrowed into his mind like angry sand gnats. Not his fault, not his fault; crusade not quarantine; thank you thank you thank you...

Anakin's daze was only barely broken when a curious "bw-oo?" came from behind him as he staggered down the hall. Artoo was there, wheeling after him hesitantly. Another flurry of binary chips. Was he all right? Did he need help? Were was he going? It still wasn't loud enough to drown out the chant: not his fault, crusade not quarantine, thank you thank you _thank you_ -

"Artoo, if you come with me, we can't come back. I'm not coming back. We can't." The more he said it, the more it became true.

_Not his fault not his fault crusade not quarantine -_

"No, you can't come back alone, either."

_Crusade not quarantine thank you thank you thank you -_

"Good. Let's go."


	19. Bonfire of the Vanities

_((A quick author's note… this is what I mean about this story moving along at a faster pace. This is a fairly significant time skip. I realize this will mean that everyone may be scrambling to figure out what's happened, but it also means I can get to the end much more quickly. ^^ Thank you for reading, and enjoy!))_

Three months later, Captain Tarkin tapped a small button on his desk, and the doors across from him opened.

The clone soldier saluted. "Sir. You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Yes, I did... Rex, is it?"

"Yes, sir."

The older man motioned to the clone and obediently, Rex removed his helm. Tarkin fixed him with a cold, hawklike stare.

"I assume you know why I've called you here," he said dryly.

The clone's face gave a small twitch. "No, sir."

"Don't lie to me," he said, tone flat.

All the clones lied in the same way, and rather badly, at that. It was tiresome. The whole clone army was tiresome, but the war was finally winding to an end as they scrambled to chase after the last remnants of the Confederate forces. Although bold, the lone apprentice was no master strategist the way Palpatine had been. She had also offered Tarkin no assurance of power, otherwise, he would have perhaps considered telling her of her novice mistakes. But the newly-coined Darth Allecto did no such thing. And as usual, Tarkin came into it clear-eyed and level-headed. Perhaps he would not immediately gain the power Palpatine had promised him, but he would emerge one of the heroes of the Clone Wars, and that would be enough...

He straightened his sleeve and looked back up at the clone again. "Let's try this again. I assume you know why I've called you here?"

Rex gave a solid gulp, adam's apple bobbing. "Yes, sir."

"Good. I assume you have something to say on the subject, then?"

"No, sir. I know that you will act as is best, sir." Another solid gulp. Tarkin waited one heartbeat, then two, knitting his fingers in front of him, waiting. The clone's lip trembled slightly before a response burst out of him. "I may have - if I omitted any details in my report about the incident at oh-nine-hundred, sir, it was only out of respect for General Skywalker. ...Sir."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, sir," the clone blurted eagerly, looking desperate. "The General is a fine soldier, sir. The best I've ever seen. You can't judge him by - by recent events, sir."

"Oh?" Tarkin's reply was cold, accompanied by a raised eyebrow. "The fact remains, Rex... was it Rex?"

"Yes, sir."

"The fact remains that if the _Valiant_ is going to chase down this 'Darth Allecto', I need my crew to be at top condition. I cannot do this with General Skywalker continually losing his temper and terrifying them." Tarkin's eyes narrowed.

"But, sir -"

"Please, Rex." He held up a slim hand before letting his fingers intertwine once more. "I respect the General. He is a fine soldier. I owe him my life. But even Admiral Yularen's rapport with the man cannot excuse his actions this morning." Rex stared off into the middle distance, continuing to stand at attention, not answering. Tarkin's frustration began to show in his voice - still cold and controlled, but slightly louder. "Do you _understand_, Commander? A man - my best navigator, one of your clone brothers - is in the infirmary now, half-dead, his throat crushed in what you described as 'a minor disagreement'. These incidents have been increasing in frequency ever since the General came onboard. I understand he is under a great deal of stress, and has a personal connection to these battles..." Actually, Tarkin didn't quite understand it; chasing after his kidnapped children made sense, leaving his wife did not. "...But this does not excuse his behavior. It merely explains it."

"Yes, sir," the clone agreed after a long moment.

A small clock steadily clicked on Tarkin's desk through the silence.

"I was hoping, Rex, that you might explain this respect you have for General Skywalker further. That you might attempt to explain his actions to me. Because, quite frankly, he is a liability to this crew and this mission, and it is only out of personal respect that I have not ordered us to detour as to get the General off of this ship." Well, that was a lie. Tarkin knew a situation he could milk for sentimentality. It would be another point in his favor, another flourish of heroics to help him rise to power. That was why he had eagerly accepted the assignment, though it had begun as little more than following Skywalker's confused hunches and whims.

"He's a good soldier, sir," Rex repeated.

The response was expected, but distinctly underwhelming. "Commander, there comes a time when a superior has to look at the soldiers he has and ask if they are continuing to _be_ good soldiers. Actions can call this into question, as I am sure you are well aware." He looked down to his desk and gently prodded a datapad so that it displayed several lines of information. "Actions such as twice-weekly holovid conferences with the Republic Navy's provided therapy services, and long daily transmissions to a certain destination that appears to alternate between Coruscant and Naboo."

And the clone paled several shades. He blinked rapidly before finally offering: "I - I was led to believe those records were confidential, sir."

"Records with the therapy services _are_ confidential, for normal soldiers. I am sure I do not need to remind you, Rex, that you are a _clone trooper_. Designed to be the perfect soldier. Sound of mind and body. Hence why therapy services were heavily cut in recent years, and why you must access them by holovid conference." He unknit his hands and leaned back in his chair. "From my point of view, I appear to have two aberrations that put this mission at risk."

"It... it would appear that way, sir," Rex said quietly. For a moment the clone looked down at his feet before raising his head again with a confidence Tarkin had not quite anticipated. "But I can assure you, Captain, this mission will succeed. We are nearing the final battle and I can promise with certainty that neither General Skywalker nor myself will be a liability to the Alliance after the battle is done. ...sir."

"That is an extraordinarily bold claim, Rex. Especially since you are making it on the General's behalf."

"Yes, sir. But I give you my word, sir."

The two men stared each other down a moment more.

An unexpected development. But ever the pragmatist, Tarkin nodded his head in quiet assent. "Very well. You are dismissed."

And Rex waited until he was out of the Captain's office to give a sigh of relief. He did not want to say how very sure he was: just yesterday, a message had come from General Skywalker for Rex to come see him. Rex was almost used to the other man's mercurial moods, but not to seeing him look so thoroughly broken and exhausted. It was if he barely had the strength to talk as he hid in the darkness, and gave orders. "Order twice the usual amount of intravenous anesthetic, Rex. I know if you can't get it, then nobody can. After they're safe - after she's dead - it has to be over." At the time, Rex had nodded in quiet assent and quickly scurried out before Skywalker seemed to be replaced once more by the wrath that was eating him.

Now, however, Rex was sure. Before sitting down to write another letter to Sabé, he looked over the requisition order one last time. Three times the usual amount, now. It would look a little suspicious, but Rex could call in favors. Besides, he had made an oath, silent as it was, to follow General Skywalker. Why would he let a little something like death stop him from following?


	20. Hearthstone

It was the closest Obi-Wan had been to his former padawan in months, and he could not remember when he had been more uncomfortable.

The briefing was neutral ground, yes, with details of the battle to distract them both. But there was a reason he was standing at one end of the room and Anakin was at the other. It wasn't because of Obi-Wan's own need to be there, to see this matter through the same way Padmé did. If that had been the reason, he would be proudly standing beside Anakin.

He knew the effect wasn't intentional, but it was heartbreaking and disturbing nonetheless. The change in physical appearance was bad enough: skin sickly-pale, dark circles underneath his eyes, keen attentiveness replaced with staring into the middle distance... But what truly bothered Obi-Wan was the echoes in the Force. The impulses were so strong that he could follow every beat of the cadences running through Anakin's head. Stand tall, stand tall, breathe, breathe - the spike of irrational hatred when he had to pause in breathing with eerie regularity to actually speak, as if admonishing himself for not being able to do both at once. The contrary impulses to hide himself in more armor, not an inch of skin exposed, peripheral vision too much to handle - and the sensation of smothering, dying, drowning trapped in his own filth. The thoughts were screaming, shearing, tearing at Anakin in a way Obi-Wan couldn't understand.

The Force didn't work like that, he had thought. Perhaps a gentle nudge in the right direction. Nothing this brutal or painful. But the fact remained that he could tell Anakin was being forced into a mold, being made into something against his will. Perhaps not by the Force, exactly. Perhaps by something far more cruel.

And the meeting continued as predicted, outlining the battle plan that would allow the small fleet to take down the final battle cruiser. It was complicated by the fact that there were prisoners to reclaim. Although everyone knew that 'prisoners' really meant 'Skywalker's children', nobody mentioned it explicitly in his presence. Padmé, of course, already knew of the plan. It was only through begging that Obi-Wan managed to get her to accept that she should sit the battle out, though he wondered how much of his success in the matter was due to his own skill with words, and how much of it could be blamed on the exhaustion that seemed to have settled on her since Anakin's abrupt departure...

By the end of the briefing, Obi-Wan caught himself also trying to obey the small, screaming voice in the Force that commanded even breaths and was furious with every pause for speaking.

"Anakin - wait," he called out as they dispersed. The other man didn't turn, or even slow, and Obi-Wan jogged to catch up. "Anakin -" He reached out, placing a hand on Anakin's shoulder. Immediately, Anakin violently shook it off, turning quickly in an aggressive manner before seeming to catch himself. The momentary anger that flashed in his eyes was replaced by nothing. It was eerily like talking to a corpse.

For a moment he opened his mouth to respond before shaking his head and turning away again.

"Anakin, _please_. I know you're anxious, but you can spare a few moments, surely -"

"He's not here." Had his former padawan's voice really grown so raspy? "He's not -" He reached up with a hand towards his head, as if trying to swat away the voices circling him and failing. "I'm not Anakin anymore." Obi-Wan would have interrupted, but there was a dire, broken earnestness to his hushed tone. "Something - I know you can feel it. I'm becoming someone who needs to wear a mask - the Revanchrist, maybe - I'm - I'm not sure -"

Obi-Wan reached out, placing his hands on the other man's shoulders, giving a firm squeeze. "_Calm down_, Anakin, please -"

"I just _told you_, I'm _not him!_" The momentary anger burned white-hot, his shout echoing; Obi-Wan stumbled back. When it passed Anakin looked sick, swaying on his feet. Obi-Wan did not hesitate to reach out for Anakin's shoulder again. This time it was enough to silently guide the other man to sit on a box of cargo sitting in the small side-room they had wandered into. Anakin buried his face in his hands, as much to stave off nausea as to appease the manic voice in his mind that kept repeating how he shouldn't show his voice, how he should hide behind a helmet...

It was one of the most difficult things he had ever done, but gently, Obi-Wan unraveled a small ribbon of perfect calm in the Force, drawing it along his arm to Anakin - a life-rope into a churning ocean, but it was enough.

"_Anakin_. I know you are still yourself because you are _here_, fighting for your children. Whatever happens next, I am still your brother. I will still help you however I can."

After a long moment, Anakin nodded, not bringing his head up out of his hands. There was a tacit understanding between the two that, for Anakin, there was likely to be nothing next, but Obi-Wan still entertained the dim hope of a return to normality. Perhaps a tendril of it snaked its way to his former padawan, as well.

Even a quickly-burning match in the darkness was a little light, opposed to pitch black shadow.

"Padmé... she didn't specifically ask me to say this, but she's on the other ship - the _Sisu_."

"I can't -" Anakin raised his head somewhat. "I can't do that to her. You know I can't, Obi-Wan."

"Why not?"

"It's useless."

"Everything is possible through the Force, Anakin."

He was silent a long moment before he spoke again, voice calmer yet more distant. "It's... it's trying to have a conversation to someone speeding past in a hovercar. I can run alongside for awhile, but even if I shout as loud as I can..."

"_She still loves you, Anakin._ With all her heart."

He had nothing to say to this.

"The last shuttle to the _Sisu_ leaves in fifteen minutes, before the jump."

It was a gentle, soft suggestion, but it was enough to get Anakin to nod, pull himself up, and start walking. Much to his relief, Obi-Wan did not have any doubts that he had done the right thing.

A short time later, Padmé answered the soft chime at her cabin door. Worn, exhausted, and beaten, Anakin was there, his lips already half-opened, trembling as he tried to come up with an adequate apology and explanation. A small sheen of tears instantly blurred her vision. There was a moment of perfect stillness before they immediately clung to one another.

All that needed to be said was done in tears and kisses. There were words, of course, but they were easily forgotten next to each caress and embrace.

They loved each other in excruciating, blessed entirety.

He hadn't taken even his boots off, while she lay nude beside him, once it was over. He waited to see if she would fall asleep, and even as she relaxed, when he moved, her hand went to clutch his wrist. "Please..." And by some miracle, he swallowed his fears of hurting her and all of the nightmarish visions that haunted him each night. The moment was more important. They held each other close until the chiming alarm alerted them that they should be in battle-ready positions, the fleet already out of hyperspace.

By then, Anakin's breathing had matched the steady cadence of her own. Matching her, sigh for sigh, was more important than anything else, even the tyrannical pressure upon him.

It was the strength he needed for what came next.


	21. Norman Morrison, 1933  1965

Rex was sure it was the cocktail of medications he had taken that morning, but as he raised his rifle to shoot down another droid soldier, it all did not seem real. It was almost as if he was watching a holovid of the battle afterwards. But he knew what he was doing - did he? Rex wasn't sure - perhaps the rifle knew what it was doing, and that was good enough. There were droids, and he had a blaster, and he was shooting them. As natural and easy as breathing. Just like every Clone Trooper was constructed to be.

To his side, one of the rookies stumbled with a cry, a bolt hitting him in the leg. It took him a moment to scramble up, but ahead, Anakin kept up the same relentless pace.

They did not have much time left.

No-one expected this Darth Allecto to be a gracious loser, but they had perhaps not counted on just how petty she was prepared to be. The last dreadnought was surrounded by Republic ships, pinned into place as fighters delicately tried to disable the ship yet not disable it _too_ much. They had not realized what was happening when a few plates shed from the craft before one pilot saw the buzz-droids cutting away at the hull of their own ship. It was spiteful suicide. Without protective plating, the ship had no chance of withstanding the atmosphere of the planet below - and the last act of its spluttering engines had been to point at the surface and fire all thrusters. So they were here. Get in, get General Skywalker's children, get out.

Simple enough, Rex told himself. Simple enough, for the rest of it being all so complicated.

Cortosis-weave screamed against Anakin's lightsaber as he snarled, facing down the last Xi Charran fighter. The droid was stumbling as if woozy, the grip on it looser than it ever had been. With a grunting, snarling yell, Anakin brought his lightsaber up and down, slicing through a weak point. The fighter fell, a pile of sparking scrap. His hair fell into his eyes as he reached down to pick up the beaded akul-tooth headdress the fighter had been wearing around its neck. The teeth were cool in his hand, pleasantly so. But he wasted no time in tearing the necklace apart, the beads scattering onto the slick steel floor.

For the briefest of moments, he let his head drop, panting. He _had_ to keep going. The soothing balm of Padme's nurturing presence was starting to wear off. The only thing keeping him moving was the sense that it would all soon be over. Over into what, Anakin didn't know. It would be done. He would be... purified. The idea thrilled him. It momentarily silenced the voice yelling in his head - breathe like so, walk like so, be angrier, be angrier - and left him with trembling, joyous silence. Fire would come and burn away his weaknesses. Flame would reduce feeble flesh to ash so it could be replaced by something powerful, something better. He wasn't scared - not anymore. He would welcome it. But first - but first...

Another group of battle droids - he had hardly noticed their passing. He reached out to brace himself against the wall, letting his head hang as he panted. That trembling excitement was coupled with a deep nausea, a fundamental horror... one was of the Light, one of the Dark, but he couldn't see which -

"Sir, are you all right?"

He glanced back over his shoulder. "Yes, Rex, I'm fine. Just as ready to get this over with as you are."

The two men shared the same thin, threadbare, worn smile. The rookie soldiers around them didn't understand it, not at the time.

"To the left?"

"Yes, sir."

Now the maintenance droids were coming at them, rushing them for interference - anything now. They were easy enough to cut down. The labyrinth of corridors had no signs, just slick metal on all sides. After all, a droid would have an area map uploaded. But they were human (fallible, Anakin thought, flawed and fleshy, but soon he would be cleansed) -

"There!"

It was a glimpse through a closing doorway, but in enough time for Anakin to stick his boot in the door and brutally fling it open despite the mechanics in the wall giving a screech of protest. It was the closest the entire ship got to something like home, though it was still all slick, cold steel. At least the curves of the droid were comforting, maternal, even. The syringe in its hand was not, even as it was reaching down into one of what could only be called cribs...

Anakin was there immediately - one slice, then another, then another, until the nanny-droid was in pieces of scrap. Instinctively, they all knew that something terrible had been in that syringe. Just one more spiteful act they had cut short.

There was a slithering hum as Anakin put away his lightsaber, reaching into the crib. A noise rolled out of him, a reflexive half-sob of relief, as he clumsily picked both of the children up at once. They looked... healthy. Intact. Their small bodies rose and fell with each breath. One - Luke, Rex guessed - pursed his lips in his sleep, relaxing against the warmth of his father's chest. The other, Leia, gave a gurgle in her sleep. Sedated, yes, but alive. They were alive.

Gently, Anakin pressed a kiss to the tops of their heads, breathing in their scent, trying to remember anything he could. For a brief, selfish moment he considered keeping them close - letting fire wipe away their weak flesh as well. But he recoiled from the thought. He was too weak and cowardly to do such a thing. _I'm sorry,_ he mouthed as he held them close.

"Sir," Rex said after a moment. "Trajectory's changing. We don't have time to get back to our ship. Closest escape pod bay is intact."

Anakin paused, gulping solidly before nodding in understanding. He gestured mutely to Rex, and clumsily, the clone trooper took Leia into his arms. Despite all the knowledge Sabe had given him, holding a young life so close was still absolutely terrifying, even if the infant was thankfully asleep. One of the rookies, even more clueless, was left in charge of Luke, mimicking how Rex was holding the girl as if children had a standard regimental position like their rifles when at attention.

"We can lead the way, sir -" Rex made sure his voice was appropriately soft.

"No." Anakin shook his head as if trying to shake something off. "I need to do this, Rex. Where do we go from here?"

"Down this corridor, left, then second right, sir."

All he could manage was a nod before they started down the hallway. There was little resistance, just a few feeble security turrets. The lights overhead flickered, and then there was mere blackness; they followed the glow of Anakin's lightsaber until they came to the small bay of escape pods. There was only one - after all, what use did a droid army have for an escape pod for organics?

"Five minutes, sir," Rex reported anxiously.

"I know - get in -"

The rookies were already inside, one of them clutching Luke awkwardly to his chest as the baby fussed in his sleep. "Yessir," Rex said reflexively, following orders without thinking. It all didn't quite seem real, just a little hazy around the edges still...

The door to the escape pod slammed shut behind Rex.

He turned around too quickly, staring through the thick and slightly distorted transparisteel. On the other side, Anakin simply smiled. The machinery was already hissing, the escape pod starting to disengage, pressure building to jettison them to safety.

And Rex gaped, because it all seemed so terribly real. "Sir - _sir_, you can't -"

That same peaceful smile was stuck to Anakin's face. He merely raised his free hand and brought it up to a salute.

"Sir?" One of the rookies chirped. "Sir, is the life support pod malfunct-"

"Salute, damn it!" Rex had already pulled himself into a returning salute, even as his vision started to blur with tears, even as his rifle clattered to the floor, his other arm securely wrapped around Leia. "_Do it, shiny!_" It was a raw emotion none of them had ever heard in a clone's voice before.

They saluted.

The pressure built, and the pod was jettisoned, flying away from the crumbling spaceship. Anakin's form was a blur, then a dot, then completely lost from view in the maze of steel and fires fueled from the ship's air supply... and Rex held the salute.

Anakin watched it tumble away from the dreadnought, and closed his eyes for a moment. That same giddy excitement had finally slid away into peace. He would die while Luke would survive: something about that was so terribly, desperately right in a way he could not explain. Just like how he would be purified by fire.

The ship was almost deserted, now. The weak defenses were disabled, now, as cut electronics sparked in the darkness like fireworks in a night sky. He walked the maze in a dreamlike state, the blue glow from his lightsaber cast on every shining metal surface. Beautiful, in its own way.

The last room with power was easily visible, a long slice of flickering light down a corridor. The bacta tank had been shattered with blunt force, and its occupant was on the floor, feebly gasping, trying to drag herself up despite the shards of the tank on the floor, digging into her knees and hands. Anakin new the rough shape of that form; his padawan, the girl who was almost a daughter to him. Even if her montrals had been burned to stubs and her skin reduced to blisters, it was still her. She struggled for each breath, now, great wheezing gasps. Her eyes, blank white, burned and scarred, roved around the room, flicking quickly from one end to the other, as if she could see him if she tried hard enough.

And he entered the room, the sound of a few shards of the tank crunching underneath his boot.

He wondered whether to put his lightsaber away, or to keep it out. He could end this now, if he cared to, a long awaited revenge. Or he could kneel beside her and it could end the way it started, with friendship, with all the love a Master was supposed to give to his Padawan.

Anakin did not have time to make a choice.

The crumbling dreadnought hit the atmosphere of the planet, thick with dust as it was. A hard landing, even for a craft in its normal state. But without the heat shielding, it was little more than a spectacular meteor. The change was swift and unsubtle. A fire roared, the heat cut through them. He felt the warmth on his face as it came -

And then, nothing.


	22. Sati

It was so beautiful, in its own way.

The ship split apart, glowing with bright fire, comet-like. It streaked down through the skies of the planet, hurtling towards the surface. Three large pieces became nine became innumerable others, a fractal of a shooting star, as the forces and friction tore at every seam.

Padmé gave a shrieking cry, looking away, nearly collapsing to the floor. Sabé had been there to catch her, Obi-Wan at her other arm, helping to pull her up. All three of them were not able to bear watching the last glimpses disappear onto the planet below, the fire dying in subtle puffs of dust as debris hit the wasteland.

Captain Tarkin, meanwhile, had watched with calm interest. It wasn't often these days to see that sort of failure upon re-entry – likely the only one of its kind in several decades, if not centuries. Not many would purposefully thwart so many safety systems just to die in such a blaze. He was somewhat impressed. He did not tell General Kenobi as such.

The _Valiant_, under his command, had been the designated vessel to stay behind. With it came General Kenobi and Senator Amidala, exactly as Tarkin had suspected. It would be excellent press for later to be the captain of the ship that stayed behind to appease a Senator's request. Tarkin even suspected Padmé might tear up a little if she ever had to vouch for him, citing how he patiently waited while teams surveyed the surface for any scrap of ash that may have once been organic material – for any shard of bone suitable for burial…

Until then, it was a perfect time to catch up on reports.

The polite knock interrupted him from the fifth report that hour, and he set it aside. "Come in." He looked up, one eyebrow raising in mild surprise. "Captain Rex. May I ask what you are doing out of uniform?"

"Resigning my commission, sir." The clone gently set down his helm and blasters on the desk before pulling back into attention. The outfit he was wearing was of distinctly Nabooian design, and Tarkin was fairly certain who it had come from. "As promised."

"I see," Tarkin said coolly.

"Sir. If I may." He paused a moment, staring into the middle distance, trying not to meet Tarkin's gaze. "I suggest using Form 207.D, sir, 'Dishonorable Discharge Due to Undisclosed Degenerative Medical Condition'."

"That's a bold claim, Captain." He said calmly even as he pulled up the document. "Are you implying all of your clone brothers are similarly defective?"

"No, sir. Only me."

There was a slight tremble to his voice, but Rex continued standing straight, hands clasped behind his back, the picture of military discipline. Tarkin looked him over, for a few moments considering using another form, as to give the clone an honorable dismissal. But there was kindness, and then there was foolishness. Tarkin didn't want to appear weak. And besides… he was merely honoring the Captain's request.

"Very well, then. Sign here, and within fifteen minutes it will be official. I'm sure that you can have your possessions packed away in two hours' time?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll instruct your regiment to gather as to give you a proper send-off, then. Dismissed, Rex."

It was a wholly unique situation. To the clone troopers, there were two ways one could leave the service of the Republic: either you were a deserter, and therefore a filthy traitor, lowest of the low… or you were dead. Rex wasn't deserting, but it certainly felt like it. Despite the official paperwork, the line of troops was there to glare at him as he made the long walk down the hangar to his waiting shuttle.

All of his worldly possessions fit into the bag slung over his back with room to spare – and that was after he attempted to give most of them away. But the others steadfastly refused to take any of the sports posters or memorabilia that he had used to mark his space as his own. They only greeted him with silence. It was amazing what he owned – how little he had that was not Alliance property. Technically, his last round of pay would be docked by at least half to cover the cost of the rough bag he was carrying. Rex didn't really care. After all, none of the clones really knew what to do with their pay, which they received on some legality. Most of them simply purchased more war bonds, returning the credits to their source.

Rex had given the money to Sabé. Sabé had saved up enough for a fine new pair of boots (and more besides). And now he was wearing them. He would have blisters tomorrow, as used to the boots as he was to the very idea of civilian life.

He could feel the heat of every brother's glare. They could think of no greater sin, abandoning flesh and blood as much as abandoning duty. They could not fathom why he was choosing to live in such disgrace. A deserter's need for rebellion – perhaps some of them felt the small stirrings of that within them. But to peacefully choose to leave? None of them understood. It was contrary to everything they had ever known – to everything they had ever been taught. The brotherhood was paramount. Nothing could be stronger than those bonds of the army they created. What more did a brother need?

What had Rex found that they were missing?

They did not know the answer, and so they hated him for it.

Although they stood at attention, silently saluting, each of their expressions curdled as Rex walked by. If it wasn't for Tarkin observing the proceedings, likely they would have spat on him, if not gone for a few punches. Rex was abhorrent – clearly flawed – deranged, defective. He was no longer a brother.

It was much easier to cast him out than to follow a thread of self-reflection that led to unhappiness with their fate.

Sabé stood patiently by the shuttle, dressed in soft and muted tones, always ready to accent Padmé's beauty – and in that odd way, finding her own. As they neared each other, she stepped forward, opening her arms. Grateful, he hugged her tightly, nearly picking her up off the floor. A few murmured words, and they turned, holding hands, disappearing into the shuttle and out of the military's influence.

None of the clones understood the bright spark of envy each of them felt.


	23. Shore Pine

Obi-Wan had never been so tired in his entire life.

Provided quarters on the _Valiant_ were more than adequate; they were even plush and cozy, to his Jedi sensibilities. But he couldn't sleep, even if all he wanted to do was appease the exhaustion hanging from his limbs like lead weights. There was too much to do, and no way he could stop doing it...

Padme, at least, seemed to be coping slightly better. They had recovered some scrap of metal and bone that was enough to be buried properly on Naboo, per her request. Sabe had even managed to get her to eat, breaking the paralyzing sorrow enough for basic necessities. Even the children seemed to be doing well, innately soothed by their mother's scent and the sound of her heartbeat as they rested in her arms. And yet – and yet, Sabe wore a hang-dog look Obi-Wan was all too familiar with. He had tried to step in and help, but there were the political repercussions of Rex's resignation – and Rex himself – on top of Padme, and the children, and funeral arrangements, and the council already waiting to pounce on him with more questions – so many unresolved issues...

He had lived his life, he realized, from emergency to emergency. Even meeting Satine – an emergency, even if one Qui-Gon seemed to have perpetual calm control over. The very start of this mess – a Trade Federation blockade, that was one emergency. An attempt against the Queen's life. A broken ship. A boy in the desert. And then Qui-Gon was dead, and everyone looked to _him_ to have all the answers. He had done admirably, he thought; Qui-Gon even said as much to him in one of the darker stretches where it seemed everything went wrong. And now, still, Sabe looked to him as if he knew what to do and just wasn't sharing with the rest of them... Her eyes, a matched set with Padme's deep brown gaze... the transmissions from the Republic Navy were riddled with question-marks, so were the messages from the council.

Obi-Wan would look back and think it fairly remarkable that he had not actually given into the urge to scream at everyone that he didn't have the answer for Anakin's death, that _nobody_ had the answer, and that they could all kindly go to hell.

It wasn't as if that would make the questions go away, either, so he knew better than to indulge in a futile gesture.

Instead his thoughts were still mired with riddles, sleep-deprivation accented by exhaustion that was complete – mental, physical, emotional, spiritual. He couldn't stop his mind from plodding along and trying to unravel some sort of sense out of the situation. Each time the only viable answer seemed to be that Palpatine had shown him the true nature of the universe. Pain and suffering as sure as entropy, as natural as breathing. It was hard to come up with good reasons to fight against it any more.

His head was in his hands when the comm buzzed, and he didn't look up. "General Kenobi? Another transmission coming through for you from Coruscant. Duchess Satine Kryze of Mandalore."

It was all too easy for the bitterness to come out. He was too exhausted to continue swallowing the viciousness like bile at the back of his throat. "Tell her I am in no mood to be lectured _again_ on how war always brings a bad end, or how pacifism is the only way to a clean conscience, or whatever damn turn of phrase she would like to beat me over the head with _this_ week since lecturing me is her favourite hobby –"

"Has it ever occurred to you that I wouldn't lecture you if I wasn't _terrified_ that exactly what happened to General Skywalker can and _will_ happen to _you?_"

He immediately sat bolt upright. Satine's hologram was already projected there, put through by the clone officer without warning. "I, uh…" It was hopeless, no amount of shuffling datapads could make him look dignified again. Of course, a heavy blush was sitting on Satine's face. She cleared her throat and smoothed out her dress, and they appeared to reach a mutual agreement that the exchange had never occurred, to keep up the guise that they were both dignified adults.

"I wanted to see how you were doing, Obi-Wan."

"Ff…"

She frowned. "And don't say 'fine'. You may have gotten better at growing a beard over the years but you haven't gotten any better at lying."

"…I've been better." He sighed, letting himself look as exhausted as he felt.

Her expression softened in sympathy. "When you're back on Coruscant, you're always welcome to come speak with me. …I may not be able to help with the Jedi perspective of things, but I am here to listen, any time you care to speak."

"Any time?"

"Any time at all. Even when the _Valiant_ docks."

"…You realize that the _Valiant_ is scheduled to come in at three in the morning, local time?"

"I'll make sure there's a fresh pot of stimcaf and we'll call it an early breakfast."

There was genuine generosity in her voice. No expectation of an answer – nothing demanded from him. Merely an invitation.

"All right. I'll see you then."

It was a brief respite but by the time they had reached Coruscant, he was already dragged down with questions again. There was a regularly scheduled storm from WeatherNet, and he was so mired in his own thoughts that he left the hood of his cloak down. By the time he finally arrived at Satine's loft at 500 Republica, he was thoroughly soaked, rain dripping from his beard. She greeted him with a hug anyway.

Messages from the council, asking for his immediate official report, filled up the small data-box attached to his comm. Every time it buzzed, he quietly ignored it. There was stimcaf, and food that wasn't from a Republic mess-hall, and warmth, and space. She did not plague him with questions, but instead gave him time. She suggested instead of commanding, leading him to something that was a happy distraction instead of another problem to face.

By dawn, he was asleep. She had jokingly threatened him with this holovid for years – a children's animation that, when she first met him, she had been horrified that he had never seen it. Now Satine was quite thankful that he was asleep for it, since she had forgotten the ending twist about the two adoptive brothers becoming mortal enemies before resolving their differences. Instead Obi-Wan had started off sitting beside her, and then that became slumped up against her, and now he was finally curled up with his head in her lap, lulled to sleep. Her slim fingers worked gently through his hair, coloring his dreams with the warm glow of something even more basic than friendship or love – simple human touch.

Eventually his comm ran out of battery power and made sad chirps, demanding attention, only to be ignored. They ordered in flatbread and noodles for dinner and talked as two people, not the General and the Duchess, grandeur stripped away to vulnerable reality.

He asked questions, and she answered them.

By the end of the night she had helped him climb out of the slippery, dark pit his mind had created. Truth was truth, and light was light, despite the roads Palpatine had dragged him down. Perhaps the foundations of the universe didn't matter. Perhaps only the moment did. And perhaps he didn't have to have answers for everyone. Perhaps he didn't have to save everything.

Perhaps doing what he could was enough.

The next morning, there were still dark bags underneath his eyes as he turned over his comm in his hand and sighed. Satine stood at the doorway, watching him pour another cup of stimcaf. "The council is still demanding my official report, and they haven't decided the matter about protocol yet, even if they are dropping charges against Padme… I'm sure that they will want my input – and there's the matter of what will happen to the children, whether they'll be taken in for training immediately or –"

"You should stay another day," she said quietly.

"I can't, Satine, you know that. There's so much to be done, and –"

He turned to face her only to be caught off guard as she stood on tiptoe, leaning up to give him a soft kiss. A bit of stimcaf splashed out of the mug he was holding, wrist going slightly limp in surprise.

"You should stay another day," she repeated, coyly smiling and waving a hand in front of him as if she was completing her own version of a mind trick.

"…I'll stay another day."

All of the questions and problems and issues could wait. For the moment, they had each other.


	24. A New Hope

Nine months later, summer was coming to Naboo.

Padmé could smell the late-blooming jasmine coming through the window as the wind picked up, making the sheer curtains flutter. Outside, she could hear the distant murmur of Rex and Sabé talking. Beside her, Luke and Leia were soundly asleep, nuzzled up against her on the wide bed. They had been so curious to see their new baby sister…

Padmé could not pretend it had been easy. The first few months she had tried to be in denial of the fact she was even pregnant again. But the responsibility that she was damaging more than her life at least kept her eating and breathing. Sabé had been patient and steadfast – and so had Obi-Wan, convincing the Jedi Council that he would teach the twins, leaving them in Padmé's care. He had been there to watch them take their first steps, and to watch them laugh, or see the long conversations that Luke and Leia had in a language only they could understand, though they were becoming more and more clear with Basic vocabulary folding into their own…

It was a remarkable resilience that the twins had. Seeing them laughing at sunlight and marveling at nature was inspiring. Their joy was infectious. Eventually it sparked true deep in Padmé's chest, a shining candle against dark despair. Then with each day light grew, and the shadows abated. Even now there was still pain. Padmé wasn't sure it would ever truly go away. But she was no longer drowning in it. There was more than just the pain. It happened slowly, but at that moment, Padmé could truly say she was happy.

The wind made the curtains flutter again, and she heard Rex's distinctive laugh. It had only been two months ago when she called Sabé aside; perhaps grief had blinded her, but it took her a long while before she noticed how the two were tiptoeing around her. They were barely in the same room in front of her, and if they were, Rex kept his eyes cast down, so careful to avoid any overt longing stares. Perhaps occasionally Sabé let her hand brush against his arm. But that was the most they did, as if thinking their love would deepen Padmé's own sorrow. Rex had taken up a job of groundskeeper, resolute in his decision to bring life out of the soil instead of waging war. And Sabé stayed indoors, almost in exile from him, until each was dismissed for the night and they reunited in their own quarters. Padmé watched for a week to make sure the vague feeling she had was a true trend before letting Sabé know outright that it pained her more to see them apart than to see them together. They, after all, had the chance to be lovers in earnest and in public the way she and Anakin never had.

Sabé had quietly thanked her and then excused herself. Out the window, Padmé watched as she ran across the spring flowerbeds to Rex, sprinting the last few meters before flinging herself into his arms and greeting him with a deep kiss.

And Padmé had smiled, even though months earlier it had seemed impossible to even think of smiling.

Now, the quiet murmurs of conversation had lulled once more. She was sure they were sharing another kiss, perhaps before another long walk through the gardens of the lake villa. It was one of the most beautiful days she had ever seen on Naboo, but she was content to stay indoors, though the windows were flung open wide. Maybe she would go on a walk later with Luke and Leia, down to the lake shore, to see Luke run forward with wobbly eagerness into the water before reminding himself how cold it was and retreating while Leia laughed at him. And she would hold the new little one in her arms…

Gently, Padmé reached out to the day-old infant, who cooed in her sleep. It had been a struggle, but they all were here, now. They all were healthy. Only one thing remained. Padmé had spent so much time focused on surviving, day after day, that the usual details escaped her. Truthfully, she had been hoping for a boy, to name him Anakin, after his father. But the little girl was unexpected. She was still absolutely perplexed about what to call her. Ani seemed to be a cheap and unfitting tribute, as did Shmi.

There had to be a perfect name, somewhere…

The rich smell of flowers and grass mingled with the lake breeze, pouring in the window along with the warm sunlight that poured onto them, filtered through the sheer curtains of the canopy bed. Luke was snoring softly in his sleep. The newborn infant clutched Padmé's offered finger tightly and gave another drowsy coo. There would be time to find the perfect name: she was sure of it. But for now…

She closed her eyes, letting her breathing slow, surrounded by her children. Padmé had never pretended to know what Anakin talked about when he discussed the Force, but now it seemed as if she was as close to it as she ever would be. A warm glow bathed them all, a unity that went beyond bonds of family, coupled with a deep and abiding peace.

And she swore that she could feel Anakin's soft breath against the back of her neck and his arms wrapped around her… a soft murmur in her ear.

She smiled.

Gently, she opened her eyes, the drowsy peace still over all of them like a blanket. "Hope," Padmé finally whispered, petting the newborn's cheek. "That's your name. And I love you, Hope."


	25. Author's Note & Appendix

(( _Author's notes, etc._

Firstly let me say, **thank you all for reading!** It really does mean a lot to me to see that some people enjoy reading what I enjoy writing. I cannot stress that enough. This may have been something of an experiment, but I'm going to count it as a somewhat successful one since this is I believe the first multi-chaptered fanfic I've written that I've actually finished…!

I'd like to give some very sincere specific thank-yous to Blackrose, whimperling, The Reader, The Pearl Maiden, and lealila for their kind reviews, critique, and feedback. Thank you guys so much for reading!

Hopefully this will just be one fanfic finished out of many. :) ))

**Appendix** – meanings of the chapter titles. This is mostly for my own amusement. As this story grew I had a lot of fun wandering around Wikipedia! The first definitions are rather obvious, but I figure I'd better explain the later ones.

Spark: A firey particle produced by one hard object hitting another.

Charred: Severely burned.

Ash: Remains of something destroyed by fire.

Tinder: Dry and flammable material used to start a fire.

Controlled Burn: Regulated fires often used in ecological settings.

Incandescence: Emitting light.

Flame Test: In chemistry, a way to determine what metal ions are in a substance due to the specific color (e.g., color spectra) each produces.

Gromnicy: A large candle traditionally used in Polish folklore; it is lit and placed in the window during thunderstorms to ward off lightning.

Flashover: Fire spreading very rapidly because of intense heat.

Backdraft: When a fire has consumed all available oxygen and suddenly explodes when more oxygen is made available.

Snuffed: Extinguished.

Accelerant: A substance often used in arson to hurry a fire's progression, e.g. paint thinner, gasoline

Herostratic: Like the Greek young man Herostratus, who burned down the Temple of Artemis in an attempt to gain fame at any cost.

Philuméniste: A person who collects matchbooks.

Eschar: Dead tissue that sloughs off the skin after a severe burn.

Anhedonia: Clinical term for lack of pleasure.

Bonfire of the Vanities: As made famous in Italy by Savanarola in 1497, the practice of burning objects that are deemed to be sinful (such as books, pieces of art, etc).

Hearthstone: A flat stone forming part of a hearth or fireplace.

Norman Morrison, 1933 – 1965: Died by self-immolation in protest of the Vietnam war, protesting outside the Pentagon.

Sati: The practice of a widow throwing herself onto her husband's funeral pyre (or being forced to die alongside him).

Shore Pine: A pine tree that relies on forest fires to burn away a coating from its seeds before they germinate.

_Now cease, at last, and give way to my entreaties,_

_lest such sadness consume you in silence, and your bitter_

_woes stream back to me often from your sweet lips._

_It has reached its end._

_-Virgil's Aeneid, Book XII_


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